


Descend

by ShudderShock



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-09 22:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShudderShock/pseuds/ShudderShock
Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter One
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N:
> 
> A. Conspiracies, action, romance, alternative universes/timelines! It should be noted that in this chapter, some knowledge of the Mass Effect: Redemption comic might be helpful. And if you’ve not read it, it’s available online for free. <3 
> 
> B. My personal headcanon is that even if Shepard rejects Liara in the first game, she still has mad feelings for the Commander through the whole trilogy. It’s something I find endearing. 
> 
> C. This is the spiritual sibling to a one-shot I wrote entitled “Soothe”. 
> 
> +++

Garrus decided early on into his service abroad the Normandy, that Commander Shepard was a living, breathing conundrum. An elite soldier, unquestionable leader, and master strategist— but merciful, and compassionate too. Never unwilling to help both crew, and strangers alike; Garrus could never quite wrap his mind around the little human, the first of her kind to raise to Spectre status. It only validated his decision to resign from C-Sec, and learn everything that he could while assisting with the capture of Saren Arterius. 

His mandible shot out in disgust at the thought of the deranged rouge Spectre that Shepard was now tasked with hunting down. It was difficult to fathom what could drive the Council’s top agent into the kind of madness that he was currently drowning in. The only thing that Garrus’ investigation turned up about him was that he had a long history of violence, but beyond that, every other detail was classified, or completely omitted from mission reports.

Yet, another reason he was grateful for the opportunity to travel with Shepard. 

No regulations, no red tape, and no bullshit. 

Only results.

The M35 Mako’s diagnostic screen flickered suddenly, the maintenance scan Garrus set to run finally finishing up. He winced at the report. Shepard drove the vehicle hard, and although it could withstand almost anything, that didn’t mean that basic upkeep could be ignored. It needed its oil changed after each ground drop, and it would be worth checking the coolant too. And the turreted machine guns probably need cleaning, the tire pressure hadn’t been looked at in a while and…

“Goddammit,” Garrus muttered, hunched over the terminal. There was a lot to do before landing on Virmire. 

“Yeah, I really put that thing through its paces.” Came an amused voice from behind. 

He straightened up, turning to find the Commander standing with a hand in her pocket and a thermos of coffee in the other. The corner of her mouth was turned up, and overall demeanor seemed relaxed. Garrus silently applauded her ability to manage stress. It wouldn’t be long before a confrontation with Saren was inevitable, and Garrus was starting to have doubts. Not in Shepard, but with the Council. In his opinion, they’d been mishandling everything to do with Saren from the start. What would stop them from doing for the same once he was apprehended?

“Commander,” he greeted. She must have heard the tension in his voice. The small, beguiled smile disappeared, replaced with a look of worry. It was an expression that didn’t suit her. He tried again, evenly asking, “What can I do for you?”

She wasn’t convinced. “Something bothering you?” she asked. 

Shepard was right to point. 

He liked that about the Commander. 

However, he hesitated for a moment, weighing whether she was being sincere or not. There wasn’t a mission that Shepard not brought him along for, and idle chit-chat in the Mako was the norm. But, he didn’t know if they were so friendly now that he could vent to Shepard freely. He risked it, anyway. “It’s Saren,” Garrus started. “He’s always one step ahead or us, and he’s got those damn geth…”

Shepard nodded in understanding, and offered, “We’re getting close, Garrus.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” he confessed. “But the idea of him getting away with everything he’s done…" and Garrus trailed off, feeling the familiar brush of anger that he experienced so often in C-Sec. He’d seen too many criminals walk due to a mix of police corruption, political influence, or simple botched investigations. 

Garrus thought about reapplying for Spectre training. 

His father would be pissed, but that wouldn’t be anything new.

“I understand your concern, but we _will_ find him,” she said with earnest. “As for you— “ she tipped her chin at him, “Just be ready to go when we do.” 

It was a nice acknowledgment of his skillset. 

She wasn’t going to do this without him.

“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.” He meant it. He’d watch her back for as long as she needed him too. “Thanks for hearing me out. I appreciate it.” 

“Any time,” she replied. 

With the discussion over, Garrus expected her to leave him to his work. Instead, she sipped her coffee, not moving. She looked up at him over the lid, as if awaiting another conservation cue. 

Curiosity getting the better of him, Garrus obliged. “Can I ask you something, Commander?” 

The smile tugged at her mouth again, before eagerly replying with, “Sure, what is it?”

“Are you…” Shepard shifted forward, just a few inches closer to him. “Worried that the Council might be protecting Saren?” 

Her face fell, the second time in the short span of their exchange. 

He elaborated, “They were really dragging their heels before. What if we find him, bring him back to the Citadel, and they refuse to act?” He just couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that was picking at the back of his neck. Even with Shepard’s leadership, the outcome was uncertain. 

“I get the impression this isn’t a question,” she said, leaning back unto the Mako. “Speak your mind, Garrus.”

It was the opening he needed. “Well, maybe we shouldn’t give them the chance. He’s too dangerous to be kept alive. When we find him, I say we stop him _permanently_.” Would it be considered insubordination abroad an Alliance vessel to suggest something like this? It wasn’t technically murder, after all. 

Shepard’s expression turned thoughtful. She’d withdrawn her hand out of its pocket and was now drumming her fingertips across the metal body the Mako.

“If Saren doesn’t listen to reason…” she said, “If he forces my hand, I’ll kill him in a heartbeat. But only, if it’s absolutely necessary.”

That wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Saren needed a bullet through the head, not a chance to escape or plan a counterattack. “But what’s the point in keeping him alive?” He popped open the side hatch. He was right, the coolant levels were low. 

Shepard stepped out his way. “We know more about Saren’s plan then anyone, but what do we _really_ know?” she asked, handing him the canister of fluid. “If we just kill him, we lose our chance at ever finding out.”

Garrus just couldn’t share her perspective, but doubted he could sway her. 

“I see your point,” he lied. Regardless of their differences in opinion, she was his superior officer, and would do as she ordered. Still, the argumentative side of his nature just couldn’t be put to rest without asking, “But do you really think there’s more to know? The man’s a raving lunatic.”

In the past, this was about the point that Executor Pallin would’ve presented Garrus with two options: either submit a letter of resignation or shut his mouth. Shepard’s reaction wasn’t nearly as dramatic. She simply said, with contemplation, “Maybe, maybe not…”

Garrus peered up from his work, waiting for her to finish her thought. 

She continued, “Call it intuition, or experience but… I feel like there’s a whole lot more to this then just what we’ve seen.” 

“We’ve seen some pretty bad shit, Commander,” he said firmly. Noveria, Feros, and whatever awaited them on Virmire… 

“I know.” She surprised him by agreeing. Maybe he’d won Shepard over after all. His victory was short-lived, however. “Garrus, if we stoop to the levels of Saren… if we compromise our own integrity just to get the job done fast, and not right, what are we really accomplishing in the long run? The universe isn’t black and white.” 

Two years later after her death, Garrus could still hear her words echoing in his head.

+++

Garrus hated Illium. 

It was a broken kaleidoscope of lavish architecture, abusive labor practices, and cults of personalities. 

He could see through it all; knew what was hiding behind the gleaming skyscrapers in the clouds, trading floors overlooking courtyards, and especially in the inviting smiles of the asari shareholders. Though far from lawless, he simply couldn’t abide by a planet where destructive competition wasn’t just the norm, but was recklessly encouraged. There was something different about the sort of criminals that resided on Illium. Mostly, because they would never be convicted of any of the crimes that were perfectly legal on this glamorous world. Power and credits were placed above all else, nothing else mattered.

It left him feeling disgusted. 

Yes, Garrus hated Illium, and the feeling was probably mutual. He’d received a mix of suspicious and oddly lustful glances since docking, and even more so as he hurried through the Nos Astra Exchange. He wore his Spectre-grade, blue-lit hardsuit well. The shield generator on his back keeping both his M-96 Mattock and M-97 Viper in position, ready to use at a moment’s notice. With his height, arsenal and armor, Garrus struck an impressive silhouette among the asari, and volus in the commercial district. 

He doubted he’d be spending enough time on the commerce planet to warrant the use of any of the weapons. Garrus had absolutely _zero_ intention of lingering after meeting with Liara, whom he hoped was better in person then she was over their last text exchange. After years of using text to communicate with his sister, Garrus was a bit of an expert at deciphering the hidden meanings found in a few lines of words. His work at C-Sec only provided additional expertise. Witness statements could be a convoluted mess to the untrained eye. 

Whatever was going on with Liara not only left her distraught, but paranoid. She insisted on meeting him in person. He’d not seen her, or any of the old squad in two years. Councilor David Anderson arranged a small private service for Commander Shepard when her death was confirmed. He distinctly remembered the way Liara wrung her petite blue hands together, tears gathering in her eyes as she tried to keep her emotions in check. They eventually won out, and she’d pressed her face into his cowl, weeping openly. 

It’d shocked him.

Not her disposition— all of them were running the gambit between grief and anger. Personally, never before had Garrus felt the dangerous mix of quiet rage, and deep emptiness— like he’d nothing else lose anymore.

No, what surprised him was that Liara choice him to clutch to while she sobbed.

Often, his only interactions with Liara on the Normandy were indifferent at best, cold at worse. He’d caught her frigid glance more than once, especially when he and Shepard were together. Garrus respected Liara; she was an intelligent, talented biotic. But she was young (by asari standards), and Garrus found it easy to ignore her, deeming her to childish to pay any attention too.

But, he couldn’t ignore her sorrow. He’d sympathetically wrapped his arm around her shoulders and let her cry. 

Perhaps, she and Shepard had been lovers, for Liara mourned like someone with a broken heart. 

The thought sat strangely with Garrus, left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Even now, as he rounded the stairs up to Liara’s office, it wasn’t an idea he liked. It just didn’t… _fit_. But what did he really know about Shepard’s taste in romantic, or sexual partners? Though they'd shared many private conversations, none delved too deeply into that topic.

And it wasn't as if he could ask her now.

The familiar pang of sorrow, and fury twisted his insides. 

There were endless reasons to enjoy his Spectre status, but the most welcomed was how busy he was kept. It gave him little time to dwell. If he wasn’t on a mission, he was at the shooting range or processing intel at the Spectre Office on the Citadel.

Approaching the top of the stairs, he checked in with an asari sitting at a desk lit with terminals. She watched him with heavily-lidded eyes, and Garrus instantly felt suspicious of her nature. He made a mental note of her name— _Nyxeris_ — and entered through the automated doors. 

Liara’s office had a remarkable view on the Nos Astra Exchange floor. It was befitting of her position. It shocked him to learn that she’d left the world of archaeology behind, instead pursuing a career as an information broker. She’d amassed an impressive number of networks, contacts, and was regarded as very well-respected. 

But, even with her back turned to him, Garrus knew that she wasn’t admiring the cityscape in front of her. Liara’s posture was too stiff, and she spun around immediately as he approached her desk, with a quality that spoke of fight-or-flight. Upon seeing him, she exhaled a small, though relieved, breath. “Garrus,” she said. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

Something in Liara had matured considerably since their last meeting. Maybe it was her attire, a long form fitting dress that hugged her body, or the way she carried herself— back straight, shoulders back, with a hip pushed out. She clearly wasn’t a demure little waif anymore, and held herself in a confident, womanly manner. 

Garrus could tell Liara was being genuine. “How could I ignore the message of an old friend?” They’d all fought along aside Shepard, were forever connected through her. They were family forged in the fires of battle. Deep down, he felt obligated to answer Liara's summons, and would have done so for any of the old crew. 

Every one of them knew what resided out there in dark space. They all knew the _truth_.

“That’s very kind of you. I wish this were under more pleasant circumstances. And, I know how busy you are, doing what you do now." She paused, saying it with a touch of criticism, “You’ve been making _quite_ the reputation for yourself.” Liara sat across from him, inviting Garrus to do that same with a gesture from her hand. 

He kept standing and crossed his arms.

“The same could be said for you,” Garrus quipped. “The work is I do is classified.”

“But the aftermath is not,” stated Liara. “Shepard would never have approved of your methods.”

Liara was probably correct in that assessment, and she wasn’t wrong about his notoriety either. However, she simply wasn’t in a position to be judgmental. Garrus was quickly becoming a decorated agent of the Citadel Council, who proved to get the job done, no matter how risky. His ideology was brutal, but there could be no mercy for the merciless. There were monsters to prepare for, and monsters that needed more immediate attention. 

“She wouldn’t want innocent people hurt,” he argued, before callously adding. “Shepard is dead. So, I guess we can't really ask her, can we?”

And if Shepard were alive, she would know how to make the tough decisions that kept the universe stable.

It hurt to say, a self-inflected cruelty brought on by resentfulness towards Liara’s ignorant scrutiny.

The asari winced but wouldn’t be rebutted so easily. “Shepard was the one who put your name forward to Special Tactics and Reconnaissance.” She said it like it was somehow meant to dictate how he worked.

That wasn’t information that Garrus ever shared with Liara, or anyone else. But, with her business being secrets, he wasn’t exactly surprised that Liara knew. While Shepard never confirmed it, Garrus was certain that she played a hand in his recruitment. Right before going to Ilos, he mentioned to her that he was going to back to C-Sec, and reapplying for Spectre training. A pleased little smile blossomed on the Commander’s lips, and she praised him. After the chaos that Sovereign inflicted on the Citadel, he was contacted on a _recommendation_. 

“I don’t need to defend anything to you, Liara,” Garrus said, effectively ending the exchange. She scowled up at him, before lowering her eyes, conceding. He’d not come to Illium to be lectured. “So, did you ask me here just to waste my time, or—?” 

Liara shook her head, two quick jerks side to side, before interpreting him. “I… may have done _something_.” And then she glanced around her office.

It shut him up immediately.

A feeling of dread settled in his chest, and only grew when Liara rose, then walked over to where he stood. She motioned him downward, while rising on to the tips of her toes. He’d seen this before, with particularly scared victims of crime. Despite their early differences, Garrus didn’t want Liara to feel that way. He tilted his head, allowing better access for her to whisper up to him.

“Garrus, I need your help,” she pleaded in a hushed voice.

“Do we need to talk somewhere else?” he quietly asked, immediately sensing danger. Whether apparent, or invisible he’d yet to determine, but all the signs were there. 

She once again shook her head. “No. I’ve turned this place inside out a dozen times.” Still, she nervously looked over her shoulder, past the glass windows to the rising spires on the horizon. 

Liara was frightened. 

“What’s going on?” Garrus asked. 

“As you know, after the attack on the Citadel, I returned to Thessia to take care of my mother’s estate.” She hesitated, weighing her words. “But... that’s not all I did.”

She shallowed back a lump in her throat, eyes shining with resolve. 

“I contacted an agent of the Shadow Broker, looking for any information on Shepard’s whereabouts after the destruction of Normandy. I learned that her body had been recovered and was in status. And that _Cerberus_ had an enthusiastic interest in obtaining her… remains. And through great danger, I helped them do it.”

For stunned moment, Garrus could only stare at Liara, shocked by her admission. He almost didn’t recognize her; so full of determination and vigor. 

And pride. 

She was proud of what she’d done. 

Did Liara not recall the all disturbing experiments, and traumatized survivors that were encountered during the many field missions on isolated, remote worlds? The science labs that stunk of disinfectant, blood, and pain? The twisted, broken bodies of both human, and non-human alike? 

Garrus could only grit out, “Cerberus? _Why_?” 

“I just couldn’t let her go…” She craned her neck, tall enough to whisper against his ear canal, “They said they could resurrect her. Bring Shepard back.”

He gawked down at her, not sure if he was hearing her properly. Did his translator just malfunction? What she uttered was impossible. There was no technology that could bring the dead back to life. Liara immersed herself in education and academia. Surely, she knew this. 

Had she not outgrown her naivety? 

Was heart-ache to blame for her disillusionment? 

Did witnessing her mother’s death, unhinge Liara in some unseen way?

It didn’t matter where her headspace was; what she was saying bordered on sacrilege.

She ignored his silence, and incredulous stare. “That was almost two years ago. And now, I just received an anonymous message about the project.”

“Project?” he echoed dryly. 

“The Lazarus Project,” Liara clarified. “The facility where it was being conducted has been compromised.” 

The Lazarus Project meant nothing to Garrus. All he knew was that Liara just confessed to somehow aiding Cerberus, a well-known terrorist-group, in acquiring Shepard’s remains. And no doubt, they desecrated what was left of the Commander in some twisted, sick way.

The thought infuriated him. 

It wasn’t what Shepard—his _friend_ — deserved after everything she’d given.

What the hell was Liara thinking?

“What you’ve done is reprehensible,” Garrus managed to grit out, before turning to leave. He needed to vacate the room, before he snapped but Liara grabbed his arm.

“There’s so much you don’t understand!” she exclaimed.

Frustration mounting, he snarled, “Shepard is gone. You could have at least put her body in the hands of her mother, or—" He wavered, not daring to give voice to the strange idea that briefly crossed his mind. He was growing more outraged by the minute and not thinking straight. “But instead you gave her to Cerberus!” 

She disregarded his anger, and spoke in a surprising rational voice, “Would _you_ have done anything different, if given the opportunity, Garrus?”

Immediately, Garrus felt like he took a shot to the gut. 

Despite all the faults he could find in both what Liara disclosed to him, and his personal feelings towards her, there was hard truth to her rhetorical question.

“You know that war is coming,” she said. “I have no love for Cerberus. I did… do love Shepard.” She paused, confirming his early presumptions. Sorrow fleetingly passed upon her features. “But this isn’t about _that_ ,” Liara insisted. “Cerberus knows about the Reapers, just like we do. They were pouring resources into funding this project, hoping to gain an edge against the oncoming threat. But now…” Her fingers gripped his arm tighter. He couldn’t feel it through the armor but could see her hand squeeze. 

She was desperate, alone, and terrified. Not unlike the moment that he, Shepard, and Wrex found her suspended in an energy field on Therum.

Garrus couldn’t believe he was really considering this. 

“What if you're _wrong_?” he asked. 

Her discouraged expression perked up at his challenge. “Excuse me?”

He wouldn’t let Liara go unchecked so easily, goading her on, “What if I get to this facility, and there’s nothing to be found but a bunch of Cerberus agents who spent the last two years laughing at you?"

"I'm not paid to be wrong.” Something about her self-assurance struck a chord with him. He wasn’t entirely convinced that what she claimed was possible, but what if…

What if Shepard _were_ alive?

He owed nothing to Liara.

But Shepard. 

He at least owed _her_ this. 

“Who’s your contact?” he finally asked. 

She looked up at him, hopeful. “The message I received was skewed, and distorted. The only thing that wasn’t were a set of coordinates. But, I think it’s the same operative I initially met a few years ago. A woman named Miranda Lawson.” 

_Miranda Lawson_. 

It wasn’t a name that passed through any of C-Sec, or Special Tactics and Reconnaissance watch lists.

He nodded, “I’ll check it out.”

Liara’s hand slid off his arm. She looked visibly relieved, as she uploaded the location to his omni-tool. “Garrus, I wouldn’t ask this of you unless I thought it was necessary. You’re a Spectre, you can _go_ where you want, _do_ what you want. Disappear, if need be. Your resources are infinite now. It wouldn’t at all be suspicious if you were to investigate this.” She walked away, looking back outside with attentive eyes. “And, you’re the only person I can trust. And before you ask, I can’t go with you. I have… _dealings_ I must attend on Illium.”

His eyes drifted to her desk, illuminated with bright screens streaming through quick lines of data. There was little else on it save for a plain, black shadow box. 

In it was something he recognized. 

_Where did she get those?_

“That’s fine,” Garrus replied. “I prefer working alone.”

He turned to leave, but Liara called out to him before he reached the door. “There’s one more thing.”

He paused, hearing the warning in her voice. 

“The Council,” she cautioned. “It’s in our best interest to keep them _out_ of this.” 

He stormed out, without allowing her to elaborate. 

Liara wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know. Garrus never forgot how they treated Shepard during the investigation into Saren, or how they downplayed her warnings about the Reapers upon death.

What Shepard put into motion, the Council now impeded at every turn.

Somehow, he left Illium feeling more agitated than when he arrived. Only recently did Garrus feel like he’d established a new sense of normal, a routine existence that sustained him. His life was both violent, and isolated. But through him, justice was unimpaired and served swiftly. He resented the Council for their bureaucracy, but his work in their name was fulfilling in a way that he’d not experienced since serving in the military. The absolute authority granted to him was a substantial responsibility, and one that he was happy to bare.

It was also dangerously intoxicating. 

Sometimes, after a particularly messy assignment, he let his mind drift to Shepard. He’d now held the position of Specter longer then she, so unfairly cut short in her career. If she were alive, would they've partnered together, or perhaps, would Shepard have mentored him during his training process?

An uncomfortable ache always gripped his heart during these short-lived flights of fancy, and Garrus knew to quash them before they became too distracting. 

It was that distressed, tight sensation that hung to him now, aboard the shuttle that couldn’t depart off world quickly enough. That, and ever-present anger, now directly aimed at Liara, who dared to inspire him to feel hope. 

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Two
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: Thanks for all the great comments, and kudos!
> 
> +++

Garrus didn’t believe in miracles. 

He’d seen too much of the bleak reality that was offered by the vastness of space to hold any regard for faith, or the doctrines of religion. Garrus was certain that if a divine agency did indeed exist, then there would be no need for the Spectres. 

While not abroad the Normandy during the attack that ultimately destroyed it, Garrus saw it through the choppy, broken vid feed from one of the black boxes that managed to survive the attack. The conflagration that took the interior was beyond devesting, the pressurized oxygen providing the perfect element for a firestorm. It was no small feat that so many survivors made it to the escape pods. 

He’d heard the news a few hours after it happened on a private, secure channel. It’d been tempting to ignore the call. He’d been on a recon mission, his first independent undertaking since commencing Spectre training, short as it was. A notorious band of batarian slavers decided to take advantage of the panic brought on by an ill prepared for natural disaster at a small mining colony. Weather patterns weren’t always predictable on some of the less hospitable worlds, where resources outweighed safety. A hurricane recently blew through, throwing the settlement into chaos. 

Communications from Citadel aid-workers had gone dark, and what little intel was provided seemed grim. It was an excellent opportunity to test the limits of his new-found authority, and he wasn’t disappointed. His take-downs were clean, and precise. Before long, Garrus cut down the slavers, tracked the captured colonists, and put the ringleader to his knees— a very wanted criminal, responsible for countless acts of kidnapping, assaults, and murder throughout both Terminus and Citadel Space. 

He was in the middle of contemplating justice, when the call came through. Something must’ve been wrong indeed, for Urdnot Wrex wasn’t the type to make small talk. Still, Garrus couldn’t help but feel annoyed at the timing, and didn’t bother hiding it from his voice, “I’m a little _busy_ here, Wrex.”

There was the static in his auditory implant for a few seconds, before the old krogan’s gruff voice filled his helmet audio feed . “Shepard’s dead.”

He couldn't have possibly heard that right. “W-What?” he asked, tripping over the word. “ _What_ did you say?”

Another pause of static. 

Never before did white noise seem so loud.

“Spaced, I heard,” Wrex finally continued. “The Normandy’s gone, too.”

“You’re _lying_ ,” Garrus said, but knew that Wrex wasn’t. 

He couldn’t take another breathe, his lungs felt too tight. 

“Just thought you’d like to hear it from me,” Wrex offered. "It’ll be all over the news vids soon. The two of you seemed close.”

“Of course.” He didn’t recognize the sound of his own flanged voice. “She was my friend.”

“Hm. _Right_." The call ended.

The world became muted, and colorless. 

Time stood still, meant nothing.

The universe would never be the same.

And neither would he. 

Old, familiar reality was swept away in the cruel, crushing wave of irreversible change.

Weeks later Garrus would realize that Wrex was trying to console him, in his own distinctly krogan way. It was devastating and cold, but still better then hearing about it through impersonal media sources, who would only go on to use Shepard’s death to further promote their own agendas. 

He regained focus only when he started to hear the guttural beseeching of the batarian who was still on his knees, hands behind his head. Two out of four eyes were swollen from taking a rifle butt to the face. Garrus suddenly wished he’d hurt him more, and hated the way he pleaded for his miserable existence. 

This _thing_ deserved to suffer.

Garrus hadn’t moved the tip of the barrel from its spot against the forehead of his quarry. “Why should _you_ be allowed to live, while _she_ died?” Garrus asked coldly, before pulling the trigger. 

It felt right. _Good_ , even.

The point-blank shot left nothing but pulpy chunks and thick splatter blown out across the ground.

He left no survivors, save the colonists. 

It would soon become his modus operandi.

Liara was adamant that her personal feelings weren't the reason behind her actions—that the impending war forced her hand to such extremes. But Garrus found it difficult to believe her claim.

He was already highly invested in this mission— saw it as an opportunity, regardless of the outcome. More than likely, Shepard was still dead. He’d not devote anymore emotional energy into the contrary. The only thing that Garrus counted on finding was further proof of Cerberus’ ruthless disposition. He’d packed enough firepower to wipe out any cells that were connected to Lazarus Project. He was going to eradicate every bit of opposition he found, and datamine every terminal available. If nothing else, this operation could lead to the whereabouts of Cerberus’ enigmatic leader, and that would be a fine prize in Shepard’s name.

And in the unlikely event that the Commander was _somehow_ alive…

He stopped himself. 

There was no need to calculate the solution to a problem that didn’t— _couldn’t_ — exist. 

Liara was a fool to believe otherwise, and holding on to the ornaments of a dead woman wasn’t going to change a damn thing.

Garrus recognized the item in the shadow box on her desk, saw it once before. Shepard had been leaning over his shoulder, assisting in a weapons repair. The workbench only accommodated one, and Shepard declined his offer to switch. She’d been off-duty, and wasn’t wearing a full set of BDUs. In place of the uniform’s standard-issued shirt, was a simple black tank top. A recoil spring from the rifle they’d been fixing suddenly popped loose, and Shepard surged forward to keep it from rolling off the table. As she did so, two bits of metal attached on a ball chain fell loose from the low collar. They’d clanked against his pauldron.

He’d looked up at her curiously. 

“My dog tags,” she explained, tucking them back under her shirt. 

She handed him the spring. 

It was the first time he noticed how slender her fingers were. 

He took it from her palm. “Our military still uses something like that, too,” he said, before sliding the spring back behind the bolt assembly. 

Her breath running across the side his mandible. “You know, I can’t remember the last time that I’ve not felt these around my neck."

And they’d gone back to work. 

How did Liara come across such a personal trinket?

And why was he letting said trinket to allow optimism into his psyche?

It was a mystery he’d have to ponder another time, because Liara’s coordinates lead him far out into the reaches of deep space. A massive space station loomed in the distance. There was nothing elegant about the design, its purpose purely functional— ideal for research, development, and long-term experimentation. 

There was something oppressing about shape of the station, so hulking and isolated against the backdrop of endless darkness. Two extensions ran horizontal, intersecting with the main body of the station, though for what purpose they served Garrus could only give a guess. The silhouette was reminiscent of a similarly shaped charm that the ever-watchful Gunner Chief Ashley Williams kept on a delicate, gold chain in her locker. 

Without any other intel then what Liara provided, exercising caution on approach was the only way to prevent something from going very wrong, very fast. And while his frigate was equipped with a VI that could multi-task almost all the ship’s operations, Garrus preferred to remain vigilant when docking. 

Immediately, he could tell that something wasn't _right_ with the facility. 

The station’s external power sources were too dim, and he was met with no resistance from an automated defense system. Only silence greeted his ears, upon tapping into the aerospace flight control communication channel. He took the frigate around once, evasive maneuvers at the ready, but remained unengaged. Forgoing the main hanger, he docked-up at a supply port, and was greeted to a grisly sight upon entry.

The facility was in the residual throws of entropy. The only illumination was the flickering of broken lights, and the emergency alarms were so loud that Garrus needed to adjust the noise cancelling software in his hardsuit to prevent needless distraction and audible damage. He drew his rifle, and as he started moving through the hallways it was difficult to ignore the blood and bodies. 

Gore was splattered everywhere. Humans, wearing black and white uniforms, made up for the most of the fallen, weapons and terminal clips at their sides. It was obvious that they’d been caught unware, but still returned a decent counterattack. Unknown mercenaries with armor that Garrus didn’t recall seeing in any of the known private military corporation records were also among the deceased. It was the standard fare for a mercenary group. Asari, turians, and krogan made up the bulk of their numbers, but Garrus saw a few humans peppered among them as well. 

Garrus sidestepped past them all, slipping through a door that wasn’t on automatic lockdown, set on finding the nearest console. The terminal inside was active, and registered under the username M. Lawson. This was the private computer of Miranda Lawson— Liara’s contact. 

Garrus was surprised to find the firewalls already breached, but luckily the data wasn’t corrupted. Whoever hacked the files wasn’t concerned with destroying what they’d uncovered. It was sloppy, but understandable. This station was the very definition of a covert operation, and the mercenaries probably already killed any unauthorized personal whose access would’ve been restricted.

The unknown assailants weren’t just sent to ruthlessly wipe out the Cerberus operatives, but also to recover as much information as possible, just as Garrus was planning to do. He didn’t like the idea of competition, and quickly started to pull up a plethora of audio and vid files. All were date-stamped, the first of which was marked about two years ago. 

Garrus started to scroll through the logs, while simultaneously downloading them to his omni-tool.

Miranda was a polished human woman with thick, dark hair and whose face was impossibly perfect, even distorted by the choppy feedback of the holo-journal. She held herself with the air of confident authority, and Garrus speculated that she was in charge of this station, and head of the project. She lacked the flat accent that Shepard spoke with, instead speaking with a melodious, though nasally sort of dialect. 

The entry to her first report held little emotion. “Test subject has been recovered, but the damage is far worse than we initially feared. In additional to the expected burns and internal injuries from the explosion, subject had suffered cellular breakdown due to long-term exposure to vacuum and sub-zero temperatures. Despite the extent of the physical trauma, Wilson assures me subject is salvageable. The Lazarus Project will proceed as planned.”

“Goddamnit,” Garrus breathed. The list of Shepard’s injuries both shocked and appalled him. Her last moments must’ve been painful, with only asphyxiation as her last company. It wasn’t right, wasn’t _fair_. Her death was still unpunished. For years, Garrus had been trying to track down the unknown enemy vessel responsible for the attack on the Normandy, and yet it provided fruitless. 

It was the cause of many of his sleepless nights. 

He moved on to the next log.

“Progress is slow, but the subject shows signs of recovery. Major organs are again functional, and there are signs of rudimentary neurological activity. In an effort to accelerate the process, we’ve moved from simple organic reconstruction of the subject to bio-synthetic fusion.” An image of an x-ray appeared on the screen. It was human skeleton, or rather what was left of one. Nearly every bone was broken or crushed in some way. A new x-ray scan than followed. It was of the same skeleton but fitted with cybernetic augmentations. “Initial results show promise.” Miranda followed up, sounding _almost_ pleased.

The next log was a vid file, and his hand wavered as he clicked the link. 

Miranda stood next to an operating table, and Garrus twisted his neck to glimpse at who was actually laying on it. Frustratingly, the single camera was stationary, mounted into the corner of the surgical room. Numerous machines surrounded the patient, further blocking his view. There was subtle movement from the figure on the table, and a hand weakly reached out to Miranda.

Miranda took the hand in her own, before placing the it back down on the table, in a surprising gentle fashion. 

A man’s voice suddenly rang out urgently, “She’s reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of her surroundings.”

“Damn it, Wilson,” snapped Miranda. “She’d not ready yet! Give her the sedative!” She stomped over to the man— _Wilson_ — who was monitoring vitals. Her body language hid nothing. She held him in nothing more than absolute contempt. 

“Heart rate still climbing. Brain activity is off the charts. Stats pushing into the red zone.” Wilson continued, administrating the drug as Miranda demanded. Momentarily he seemed relived, before exclaiming, “It’s not working!” 

Miranda shoved him towards a medical cart.

“Another dose! _Now_!” she ordered.

Even as he did so, Wilson made time to cut his eyes in Miranda’s direction. “Heart rate dropping. Stats falling back into normal range,” he said. “That was too close. We almost lost her.”

“I told you your estimates were _off_ ,” Miranda sneered coldly, punctuating her statement by jabbing a finger into Wilson’s chest. “Run the numbers again.” 

The screen went dark.

Garrus took a moment to compose himself before proceeding. 

All signs were pointing towards the stunning revelation that Cerberus had successfully achieved the greatest medical breakthrough in recorded history. And that somewhere, in this very station, Shepard was alive. His mind rapidly fired out what possibilities that could mean. Shepard could rally the old squad, and they could have a fighting chance against the Reaper invasion. 

_The Reapers_.

Were those machines the reason that Cerberus had done _this_? Out of all the organizations that Shepard was affiliated with, and actually supported, the irony of the pro-human terrorist group heeding her warnings (while all others ignored them) wasn’t lost on him. An already complicated situation was becoming more convoluted by the minute. There were only a few logs left, and he checked the surveillance feeds before playing them. He was dangerously engrossed in his task and didn’t need a bullet in the back interfering with that. 

Satisfied with the momentary security, Garrus continued with the next entry.

“Physical reconstruction of subject is complete, but we still need to evaluate all mental and neurological functions. Our orders were clear: make Commander Shepard who she was before the explosion— the same mind, the same morals, the same personality. If we alter her identity in any way, if she’s somehow not the woman she used to be, the Lazarus Project will have failed. I refuse to let that happen.” Miranda glanced down, before hesitantly continuing, “However, at my recommendation, we’ve upgraded her L3 biotic implant to the L5n model. She’ll be stronger, faster, and more dangerous than before. I feel this is an essential and advantageous upgrade.”

Garrus snorted. 

That was all Shepard needed— upgraded biotic power. 

There was only one entry left, and it was time stamped for less than five hours ago.

Miranda’s expression was livid, but she spoke with objectivity. “We wiped out the first wave, but our security officers took heavy causalities. I expect another attack soon.” She shook her head, long locks swaying side to side, before callously stating, “It pains me to have reached out to the asari, but Shepard _must_ survive. With the… decline of our forces, I feel that I can no longer guarantee that on my own.” Her next words were surprising passionate, coming from the otherwise frigid woman, “People can say what they want our organization, but we know the truth.”

“That is debatable,” Garrus muttered.

Miranda recomposed herself. “I’ve locked down and rerouted power to the med-bay. The Commander is stable, and under time-released sedation in the operating room. The Illusive Man feels that this will be good test to see how much functionality she’s regained. Given her past performance records, if Shepard isn’t resourceful enough to make her way through this facility in its current state, then the project would’ve failed anyway.”

The last thing that Miranda said before the vid cut off was venomous, “When I find the useless _cunt_ behind all this— “

Garrus uploaded a map of the station to his omni-tool before rushing through the Bio Wing, with the knowledge that he was closing in on the med-bay. Time was now a pressing issue, especially if Miranda’s concern about an additional assault wave proved to be true. Defensive turrets registered his presence upon crossing the threshold near an elevator, arsenals springing to life. He took cover, overloading one and shooting the other, before accessing the elevator that would take him further down to his goal. 

A mingled sense of foreboding, and anticipation took him, as he descended into the void.

Was this really happening? 

That terrible feeling of hope once again clawed its way around his heart, squeezing it so hard that Garrus was afraid that it would actually stop beating. 

The elevator stopped, and Garrus steeled himself, entering the operating theater with his gun drawn. It took only a quick sweep around to know that he wouldn’t need his weapon out, at least for now.

The power loss throughout the station left this area unaffected. The only sound was the gentle hum of back-up generators, the abrasive station-wide alarms sparing this space. The room was clean and spacious, with diffused ambient lighting. The overhead surgical lights were currently turned off. Viewing screens and monitors flickered between cardiac, respiratory, and neurological sensors. They were all within the target parameters. At the center of it all was an operating table, a prone female figure lay draped in a white sheet— the patients whose vitals were strong.

There was a quiet sacredness to it all, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking up to an altar. His hand wavered, as he grabbed the top of the sheet, pulling it down to unveil the occupant underneath. 

Did he dare to believe that all evidence pointed towards the impossible fact that…

The sheet slid away.

No, Garrus didn’t believe in miracles. 

But seeing Shepard’s breathing, intact body made him want too. 

His world blackened around the edges.

Disbelief and blood swirled around in his ears. 

It was not unlike the moment he learned of her death.

Garrus tugged off his helmet, needed to feel air on his plates and fringe— needed to _see_ Shepard without the protective headgear obstructing his view and senses. The room smelled of antiseptic but only just slightly. It was mostly her scent that filled his nostrils. 

It really was her.

And yet…

Surely this wasn’t the same woman who could rip apart hordes of geth with her biotics, reload her shotgun in under two seconds, all while seamlessly dispensing medi-gel to ensure that victory would not mean death. As his gaze brushed over her form, he realized that _this_ wasn’t the Commander as he remembered.

This was some sort of maiden who laid in front of him, nude and vulnerable in medically induced slumber. The sheet billowed too far down and settled low on her hips. He’d not meant to expose so much of her, only enough to confirm her identity. Respectfully, Garrus tried to keep his eyes pinned to her face. Eyes shut, her lashes fanned against her cheeks, with lips parted to draw breathe, she appeared to be in peaceful, natural sleep. 

“Shepard?” he coaxed, before gently placing his fingers across her cheek. 

She didn’t stir. 

Leaning closer, Garrus studied her more.

Had it been so long, that his memory of Shepard was now flawed?

No, the details of her appearances never left his mind. She was one of the few humans that stood out among the all the others, and had done so since their very first brief encounter at the Citadel Tower.

Often, Garrus found that he couldn’t help but observed Shepard.

Where was the scar that ran through her eyebrow to the side of her temple? She earned that scar during the Skyllian Blitz. What right did Cerberus have, erasing it from her visage? And, why did her hair fall so loosely around her face? Shepard kept her hair cropped neatly against her head. If Cerberus went through all the trouble to repair her decimated body, couldn’t they have at least honored her simple hairstyle? 

His eyes drifted further down, unable to prevent the further analyze over parts of her anatomy he’d never seen before and was instantly hit with a feeling of interest. Garrus always knew Shepard was slight, but never so smooth, with lean muscle and such a defined waist. Her modest breasts were utterly foreign to him, and he looked away, knowing enough not to stare. Garrus allowed his mind to process what he was seeing and willed his heartrate down. He then pulled the sheet up to her shoulders and admonished himself. Shepard would likely not want to be bared before him like this, so defenseless and unable to consent to his view.

An intravenous line was inserted into the top of her hand, the tubing attached to a bag of fluid— the prescribed sedative that was keeping Shepard in a comatose state. Garrus closed the roller clamp, stopping the flow of liquid. Hastily, he grabbed gauze, self-adherent wrap, and pulled the catheter hub from her hand. They needed to vacate this station as quickly as possible, and although he knew that carrying Shepard out was an option, he’d prefer having both hands at the ready. Even if she only moved sluggishly, Garrus was confident that he could provide cover for them both. Hopefully, they could linger here safety, until Shepard awoke from her lethargy. 

This was probably the one decent thing that Cerberus would ever do, and yet Garrus could already feel that it was carried-out with some unknown, sinister purpose, despite what Miranda presented in her entry-logs. He wouldn’t allow Shepard to be as an instrument, or weapon to the whims of radical zealots. Tugging his helmet back on, and leaving Shepard to rouse, Garrus started to access the terminals through the operating room. Whatever the Lazarus Project was—or wasn’t— he wanted every bit of information extracted to his omni-tool. 

Not just for himself, but for Shepard too.

She deserved answers for her new-state of existence.

Completely focused on his task, the patter of footprints came too late from behind. Garrus barely had enough time to roll away, before his vision was blocked by the ripple of cloth, and he dodged a crushing blow from a biotically produced vortex. 

And while he anticipated Shepard waking up feeling confused…

Garrus didn’t expect her to awaken so quickly.

“Start talking, or I’ll rip you apart,” Shepard demanded, voice hoarse with disuse.

Or to be so hostile.

End Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Three
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: 
> 
> A. I’m sorry about the hiatus! 
> 
> B. Thanks RobinYourgrave for beta reading!
> 
> +++

The day Garrus received access to Spectre Requisitions, he ordered the finest tactical gear, and equipment that was available on any market, legal or otherwise. A C-Sec salary would never afford anything from the likes of Armex Arsenal, but his stipend from the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance presented no such problem. 

He chose a sleek set of heavy armor, and maybe it his tenure with C-Sec, or some sub-conscious effort to please his irate father, but he stuck to the familiar blue and black color-scheme. The helmet was equipped with a fusion of beneficial vision features— telescopic, ultraviolet, infrared, and night vision capabilities— that made a sniper like him even more efficient. 

He even ordered an Avalanche X shotgun for Shepard, with plans to modify it to fit her compact human physique. It was difficult to acquire anything for non-turians from that particular manufacturer, but Garrus knew that she’d at least enjoy adding it to her collection, even if she never used it. It was meant to be a gift of appreciation, for all those times she shelled out her own money for the licenses that kept the crew updated with quality gear. He hoped she’d accept; he’d seen Shepard turn down credits offered to her for charitable deeds. 

The alterations on the gun were nearly complete, when _it_ happened. He left the project unfinished, pushed to the back of his workbench, covered in an old rag soaked with gun oil. He didn’t want to look at the shotgun, much less touch it again. 

He thought of that abandoned project now, as Shepard, so clever and experienced in combat, knew to use a simple piece of cloth to obscure the optics on even the finest helmet. She had him at a disadvantage; on his knees, blinded and ready to kill, if he so much as twitched the wrong way.

It was one of many miscalculations that he’d acknowledge from this mission, and knew he’d only himself to blame.

At least he’d been able to deactivate the alarm that screeched through the rest of the station before she attacked him. 

The reaction elicited from Shepard was unsurprising. 

She didn’t recognize him.

And how could she be expected too?

Turians, along with any other race in full combat gear, lacked personal identity. 

Not only that, she’d woken up nude, flat on an operating table, in an unknown location. Garrus cringed, thinking of what her waking moment must’ve been like. In his mind’s eye, he saw her rising, sheet falling from her body, only to be greeted by a heavily armed turian, hacking the terminals around her. 

From her perspective, this probably appeared to be an impending assault. Ultimately, he was lucky that she was level-headed enough not to just warp his ass without asking questions. 

Garrus would not have been so charitable. 

Maybe in a past life, but certainly not now. 

“Start talking. _Now_ ,” she demanded again. And, even with her hoarse vocals, it was undeniably Shepard speaking. 

Garrus never thought he would her speak again. 

A taut pressure was building at the base of his neck. She was focusing her biotics at the seal found there, with the intention of rupturing his hardsuit, exposing a universally vulnerable spot. Garrus had seen her do it before. 

It was a nasty way to go.

“Shepard,” Garrus started, attempting to display nonthreatening posture by holding his hands up and out. “I know this must be—“ 

The pressure abated slightly from the back of his skull. Her interest was piqued, but Shepard wasn’t taking chances with her curiosity. Slowly, the sheet was pulled away from his view. He knew not to move, as there was still a chance that it would tempt her retaliation. Fabric rustled from behind; Shepard must’ve been adjusting it around her body. 

“To your feet,” she commanded, and he did so slowly. 

Her biotics subsided even more, when Shepard said, “Now, turn around, and take off the helmet.” He pivoted, and saw that Shepard did indeed have herself covered, sheet wrapped around her shoulders, with only an arm sticking out from the cover, along with her strange little human feet. He felt a small amount of guilt. Despite her attempt at modesty, he’d already seen half of her unclothed. He pulled off his headgear, dropping it to the floor. 

They stood, and watched each other for a few breathes. 

“…Garrus?” Shepard finally questioned, before her eyes lit up, and her demeanor relaxed considerably. She was still on guard, but not ready to kill. 

His name sounded uncomfortably pleasant coming from her lips.

Had her voice always made his fringe tingle from tip to base?

“Present and accounted for,” he answered, finally lowering his arms.

“I recognized your voice, but…” Shepard said, and Garrus could see confusion setting in. “What’re you doing here?”

“Should be more concerned where here is, Shepard,” Garrus informed her. “As for me, I’m _here_ for you.”

Shepard took a curious glance around the room. “I’m in the hospital?” she guessed, and Garrus realized he had no idea on how to even start trying to explain anything to Shepard. He barely understood it himself. “The distress beacon I fired off must’ve left the Normandy in time…” she mused, before looking up at him, waiting for him to confirm her words. 

His mouth felt too dry. 

He was looking at a ghost. 

Shepard sensed his hesitation, because she took a step forward, but suddenly staggered, a look of fatigue appearing on her face. Garrus caught her forearms before she could fall, and she slumped into his chest. Activating her biotics must have triggered a dizzy-spell, her metabolism lacking the proper energy required to use her abilities after being comatose for so long. Garrus was already making a list in his mind for what they would need to try to salvage before leaving the station; a food source for Shepard, and something that resembled real clothing. That sheet would provide nothing for her once they started moving. Already, it jostled to her shoulder, and Garrus tried not to look, but she was so close, and solid against his armored body. 

“The Normandy is…” Garrus couldn’t form the words to complete his sentence. He tried again. “We’re not at a hospital.”

She brought one of her hands up to her forehead, and then dragged it through her hair, something Garrus saw her do from time to time when she pushed herself far too long without rest. A bewildered expression replaced the tired one, as she caught some of her long locks between her fingers, inspecting the strands. 

“Garrus, tell me—" Shepard started, but he interrupted her, “It’ll be easier to show you, once we leave.” 

She put a hand to his chest, fingers pausing over the silver Spectre insignia embossed there, before pushing herself back from him. She didn’t stumble, but he still kept a hand on the side of her arm until he could no longer reach her. “Let’s get moving, then,” Shepard said, turning towards the exit. 

There was the smallest of doubts, about whether this _really_ was Shepard. She could have been some sort of clone, or even a VI, despite how familiar she smelled on the surgery table. But all doubts about her identity vanished as Garrus watched her so brazenly march out of the med-bay clad in nothing else other than a thin piece of fabric.

Garrus picked up his helmet, and pulled his rifle from his back. In a few strides, he’d caught up to Shepard. “Let me take point,” he said, and then didn’t give her a chance to respond, stepping up to pass Shepard to lead them through the station. 

Shepard allowed it, and they rode the elevator up in silence. 

He could feel Shepard periodically stealing looks up at his face, unasked questions causing her eyebrows to knit in annoyance. He ignored her, because it was already difficult enough to deny her the first time, but if he met her eyes one more time he would break down. 

They needed to leave this place, and Garrus needed more time to think. 

They were toeing the precipice of disaster, and over the edge was only the embrace of the abyss. 

And yet…

He looked over his shoulder, just enough to see Shepard, and it wasn’t all bad.

They reached the corridor that Garrus entered through, stopping at one of the locked doors. Shepard must have been following his earlier thought process— supplies. She reached her hand out, like she was about to access her omni-tool, but fell short realizing she lacked it. 

Garrus saved her the trouble of asking for his assistance, and as the door slid open, he swept over the room with his rifle. The dim emergency lighting that barely illuminated the station was more than enough to expose the bodies inside. He lowered his gun. 

Shepard stormed past him. “What the hell happened?” she muttered, before dodging the gore on the floor to examine one of the dead men. She knelt down in front of him, just out of range of the blood that puddled around the corpse.

Garrus recognized him from the vid that was on Miranda’s computer— Wilson. 

It was a rhetorical question, but Garrus still said, “They were attacked.” 

Shepard rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Garrus shifted his rifle. “Must’ve been shot and locked himself in here, before bleeding out. “Sorry sonuvabitch.” 

There was an unfired pistol next to the corpses leg, and Shepard lean down to picked it up. She checked it, her lip turning up just a bit. The thermal clip was full.

“Do you recognize the emblem on the uniform?” she asked, rising to her feet.

After a long pause, in which Garrus weighed the pros and cons of lying to Shepard, he responded with a quiet, “Yeah…”

Her head snapped up at him. “Care to elaborate?” 

“I will,” he promised. 

“Garrus.” Her voice held warning.

“Listen. This is why we need to leave. Whoever killed them— more are on the way. We’re in no position to be caught in a firefight.” Their odds of survival weren’t totally null, but he wasn’t willing to risk it. Not now, at least. Not while Shepard was in a such state, though he dare not use the term vulnerable again. She had been vulnerable on the operating table. She was merely inconvenienced now. Garrus walked over to a blinking terminal. “I’m going to check the station’s surveillance. Why don’t you scrounge around for some supplies?” Garrus suggested. “Bet your _ensemble_ is getting drafty.”

She smiled, amused at his comment, before walking over to the lockers on the far wall. 

While scrolling through the vid feeds, he heard Shepard open and shut a few of them, before making a victorious sort of noise. 

“Found some clothes,” she announced, and then walked over to Garrus to view the feeds. “See anyone?”

“No one whose breathing,” Garrus replied offhandedly.

“We need to check around for survivors,” Shepard said. 

“Absolutely not,” Garrus answered firmly. 

“What—” Shepard started, before he cut her off. “There’s no one else left to save,” Garrus stated.

Shepard shook her head. “How can you be so sure? Look at this thing.” She pointed to the screen. “We can’t trust it. The date isn’t even right! The feeds are probably broken too.”

Shepard died in 2183 CE.

The vid feed was date-stamped with 2185 CE. 

And Garrus realized that he wouldn’t be able to stall any longer. 

And maybe he never held that right, even briefly. Shepard wasn’t the type that needed protection— especially from the truth. 

He straightened his back, and resolved himself. “The date isn’t wrong,” he informed her, only to be fixed with a hard stare that burned right through his visor. “And the Normandy is gone. It was destroyed by an unknown assailant in 2183.” He took a breath, another attempt to brace himself against his next words, because they were the most painful and unbelievable. “And so were you.” 

Once again, while he was positive that this was the same Shepard that thwarted the first Reaper invasion, she seemed like that maiden again— eyes wide, and lips parted in perplexity, oval face surrounded by long, shiny hair. Shepard stood before him, clutching stolen clothing to her chest with one hand, and in the other was the pistol she retrieved from the body on the floor. She opened her mouth, then clicked her jaw shut, at a loss for words. 

He seized the opportunity to continue.

“ _This_ is a Cerberus station. _That_ emblem,” He pointed to Wilson. “Is the Cerberus emblem.” 

“Cerberus,” Shepard breathed. 

“I’ve collected all of the data I could. When we get back to my ship, we can review it. But, we can’t dawdle here,” he stressed, but could see the gears in Shepard’s brain start to crank as it all dawned on her. 

“Cerberus _did_ this,” Shepard muttered. “But that doesn’t make sense. _Why_?” 

Garrus watched the swell of emotions run through her, and he remembered something his father once offered him in a moment of paternal wisdom: _"Why" is the question that really exposes purpose, Garrus. The answer to that question is the most important discovery you can make. It’ll help you reveal conflicts, and change results that don’t work for you._

It was advice that fueled Garrus’ adolescent curiosity in all things related to electronics, engineering, firearms, and strategy. 

But Castis’ advice meant nothing to him in his adult life. The secret to life was not asking why, but rather sucking it up and dealing with it. Life was about constantly moving forward, learning from what just happened, making sure you don't make the same mistake twice, and being better prepared for next time.

And although Garrus had his own speculations to answer her question, there were just some things that couldn’t be discussed in such an offensive environment. Shepard was already standing dangerously close to more splattered blood, though somehow, her feet remained unsoiled. “Shepard, please just trust me to get you of here.” 

But shock and awe were never so easily broken by words alone. 

“Two years,” she continued dumbstruck. “Of my life… is gone.”

He resisted the urge to grab her shoulders, and shake her.

“I was killed in action…” Shepard stated.

“I’m sorry,” Garrus offered. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.” 

“No. It’s not that,” she said. “Was anyone else killed on the Normandy?” 

And of course, that was Shepard’s real concern. 

“Over twenty crew members died, and Navigator Pressly was among them. Tali, Ashley, and Liara all made it to the escape pods. Joker also survived,” Garrus informed her.

“I remember…” she said softly, more to herself than him. After a moment, she nodded, like she was formulating a plan, confusion no longer clouding her mind. “I’m gonna get dressed now.” 

Garrus took the hint, moving to stand outside, letting Shepard privately change. 

When she emerged, Shepard was wearing a Cerberus uniform obviously meant for someone much larger than herself. In addition to the boots she now wore, a disgusted expression adorned her face, as she brought a bright red can of energy drink to her lips, chugging it as quickly as possible. 

“It tastes terrible,” she explained, once it was empty. “And it’s warm.”

“Well, at least you won’t pass out the next time you try to warp someone,” Garrus said. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Shepard. 

She didn’t need to apologize for instinct.

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’ll keep you alive.” 

Her expression seemed troubled, and a noticeably stormy tension brewed between them. An after effect from his refusal to look for survivors, perhaps. 

“You’ve changed, Garrus,” Shepard finally said. 

“I’ve adapted,” he replied, and they continued down the corridor. 

+++

They traversed the rest of the station in silence, caused not by the friction of their own differences, but by shared caution. Shepard conceded to his request to take point, and she stayed by his side, letting Garrus provide the necessary buffer between potential opposition. 

They found none so far— the mysterious assailants left no survivors amongst Cerberus. 

And Cerberus, with what forces they commanded, repaid them in kind. 

But Garrus couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Not just by the security cameras that required minimal power to operate, but by something more sentient— something intelligent, and _mean_ enough to hunt. At one point, Garrus swore he heard the echo of footsteps, and the two of them whipped around, guns drawn to meet only cold metal walls, and empty corners. Shepard’s reaction to the phantom noise gave him little comfort— her acknowledgement meant that it was real.

They said nothing, but their steps quickened after that. 

The station’s backup power was failing, the twisting and turning of the hallways becoming steadily darker since Garrus arrived. He activated the light system attached to his rifle’s frame, intense white light alleviating the oppressive darkness. It was a courtesy for Shepard; the night optics in his helmet providing enough visibility. 

They reached the supply port without further incident. When Garrus motioned for Shepard to enter the frigate ahead of him, she had the nerve to look both indignant— and entertained. She opened her mouth to speak, but her words never came. Shepard instead focused intently on something over Garrus’ shoulder. She tipped her chin discreetly, but it was a clear signal to _look_.

Garrus jerked up his rifle, aiming the scope towards the scaffolding. 

And he swore he saw the moving shadow of an asari, and the glint of familiar armor, but before Garrus could look again, no one there. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, lowering the rifle. 

“Please,” grumbled Shepard. “I’ve had enough of this place to last a lifetime.”

Garrus managed a bitter chuckle at her understatement. 

+++

“The Lazarus Project. That’s what they called it,” Shepard scoffed, though she didn’t look up from the datapad she was hunched over. She’d not moved from the spot in the galley since the ship started to steadily drift on its course far away from research facility. 

“Does that mean anything to you?” asked Garrus, glancing up at Shepard from his own project. Laid out on the table were the hodgepodge components of an omni-tool. He’d taken bits and pieces from models that were either outdated, or obsolete. While it wouldn’t have the sort of functionality of more advanced models, at least Shepard would be able to receive and send data files, as well as audio and video communications. The extranet would also be accessible. 

“It’s just a nod to old Christian mythology. I won’t bore you with the details. Ashley would probably get a kick out of it, though.” Shepard was seated on the stainless-steel countertop, feet dangling against the equally durable cabinet faces. He didn’t have much in the way of food that was compatible with Shepard’s body chemistry, but a tall glass of water was stationed next to her. “Or it’d piss her off,” Shepard added. 

She set the datapad aside, clearly annoyed. “These things just don’t hold much information,” Shepard huffed. 

“Here,” Garrus said, standing up. “It’s subpar, but it’ll get you through until I can get a hold of something better for you.” 

He approached her, stood close enough that her knees barely brushed against his upper thighs. She scooted forward, just a little, and spread her knees just a fraction. 

“Left, or right?” he asked.

“Right,” said Shepard, holding up her wrist. He took it in his hand, and secured the metal band around it. It was too big, and slid down her arm a bit. Shepard had very narrow wrists Garrus noticed— he could have easily looped his thumb and forefinger around it with room to spare. He tightened the omni-tool bracelet the best he could, before activating the chip inside with the tip of a small screwdriver.

The bright orange interface flared to life, illuminating them both in its brassy glow. 

Shepard smiled up at him, and quietly said, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he replied, but a growing desire to linger near Shepard made his head, and feet feel heavy. The fleeting image of her smooth, unmarred skin fluttered through his mind, like a warm breeze. There was no evidence of surgery anywhere on her body, or face that he could see.

And he’d seen more than he could have imagined.

Shepard still observed him through thick lashes when she lowered her arm, the makeshift omni-tool shutting down, returning them to the dim, cool lighting of the galley. Shepard’s hand drifted to the front of his armor, and she ran a fingertip across the Spectre insignia on his chest again. “How’d you find me?” she asked, still speaking in the same hushed tones. 

It was impossible, but he swore the spot she was caressing felt hotter, even through his armor.

“Liara,” he answered, matching Shepard’s muted pitch. He shifted slightly, and the subtle metallic noise of his armor seemed far too loud. 

“Really?” Shepard said, seeming skeptical. “Well, she was always good at finding things, I guess.”

“Do you want me to take you to her?” Garrus asked, dreading the answer without reason. 

Shepard countered his question with, “Why would I want that, Garrus?” And the base of his fringe suddenly buzzed pleasantly with both the way his name rolled out of her mouth, and her answer. It wasn’t the response of a woman wanting to jump into the arms of her lover. 

Still, he couldn’t resist probing the topic more. “I just thought...” Garrus started in quiet duel-tones. “That you'd like to see your girlfriend.”

Shepard’s expression molded into bewilderment, and she lowered her hand. Garrus briefly caught a glimpse of the underside of it. Years ago, when she captured the bolt that sprang free from an assault rifle they were reassembling, her palm was calloused. 

It was soft now. 

Just like her missing scars, the rest of her body was wholly repaired— unblemished. 

“Liara isn’t my girlfriend,” Shepard said, and whatever bubble they were encased in popped. Her voice was back to its normal volume, pupils no longer blown. 

And yet, he’d still not moved.

‘It’s not like that, between her and I. Never was,” stated Shepard. “You should know that,” she added, putting the matter to rest. She hopped off the countertop, and Garrus finally stepped back to give her room.

She stretched, arms over her head in such a causal way that Garrus was thunderstruck at how _normal_ this all seemed. “You’re handling this pretty well,” he said.

“What else should I be doing?” she asked. “Can’t dwell on the past.”

“I guess you can’t,” he stated, though his words felt hollow. 

End Chapter Three


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Four
> 
> Author: Author: Shudder Shock http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: 
> 
> Thanks RobinYourgrave for beta reading!
> 
> +++

Garrus had only seen Shepard dejected twice since knowing her. The first instance was when she made the difficult, yet necessary decision to leave Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko on Virmire— choosing to sacrifice his life to complete the critical assault mission on Saren’s base of operations. From what little Garrus knew of Alenko, the Lieutenant would have been proud in his last moments; he was a true testament to the Systems Alliance. 

Shepard bore the weight of her choice heavily, and such a terrible loss would not go unanswered, or unpunished. 

It wasn’t long after the outcome on Virmire, that the Council decided that Shepard was no longer needed in the pursuit of their rouge Spectre. A ripple of betrayal rolled through his gut. Garrus risked a sidelong glance at Shepard for whom, despite her professionalism, looked astonished at their audacity. 

“They basically just told you to kiss their asses, Shepard.” Wrex casually remarked, as the three of them walked down the polished stairs of the Council Chamber’s central platform. They made for an odd sight together— a human female flanked by a scarred krogan, and spiny turian. Shepard only shook her head in indignant disbelief. Wrex continued, despite her dismissal. “They’ve thrown you away,” he said with the undisputed confidence that came from living through centuries worth of conflicts— of personally experiencing the political fallout of war. “That’s what the Council does.” 

Still, Shepard didn’t reply to Wrex, or his instigation. 

The elevator seemed to take an impossibly long time in getting back to Dock 422. Garrus noticed Shepard’s troubled expression— jawline clenched and brows furrowed. She must have felt him staring; she met his gaze, and Garrus swore her eyes softened. 

“Commander…” Garrus hesitated. “We’ll figure something out.”

It was the best he could offer.

Her smile was subtle, but it did shine through. 

Wrex ran a thick finger down the barrel of his shotgun— he was bold to have his weapon unholstered on the Citadel. C-Sec made excuses to arrest krogan for less. “Tell you what you should _do_ —" he gruffly started, before Shepard spun on her heel, cutting him off. “Wrex, you need to figure your ownshit out, before you tell me what I should be doing with mine!” she snapped.

For split second, Garrus was certain that the old Battlemaster was going to charge her— there was heat in his crimson eyes, and Wrex bared his jagged teeth behind snarled lips. Despite her altruism, when Shepard got mean she went right for the throat— killing pride and hurting feelings. Garrus’ hand hovered over the pistol strapped to his back; he didn’t want to shoot Wrex, however Garrus wasn’t optimistic. But, the krogan’s outrage at Shepard’s criticism passed as quickly as it came, was probably never even aimed at her. And besides, Garrus knew that Wrex liked Shepard, but more importantly, he respectedher. Garrus relaxed his hand. 

“Point taken, Shepard,” he grunted out. “Not tryin’ to piss you off.”

“I know,” Shepard muttered.

“Just tryin’ to warn you,” Wrex continued. “ _Disposable_. That's all we are to them.”

The Normandy’s decontamination process washed over them. They parted ways with Shepard, but Garrus overheard Wrex echo his previous statement, this time the utterance so softly that Wrex could have only been saying it to himself. “…Just disposable.” 

When Garrus returned to the garage, he stared at the Mako’s bright diagnostic screen, but it was difficult to focus. There was an ugly truth to what Wrex said, but if Garrus was sure of anything, it was that Shepard wasn’t disposable. Wrex briefly looked away from his omni-tool while Garrus waited for the elevator, tilting his large triangular head in acknowledgment, before returning to his task. Garrus was just able to make out what Wrex was viewing— the krogan homeworld, Tuchanka. 

He almost ran right into Liara coming as he rounded the corner to deck two. She seemed lost in thought, sapphire eyes downcast, and expression dejected. She said nothing to him as she entered the medical bay.

Garrus found Shepard slumped on the floor, against the lockers— elbows resting on her knees, head hanging between them. She rolled exhausted eyes up to him as he approached; watching him, yet saying nothing in greeting. 

“Commander…” he started. “Are you alright?” 

Her head hit cold metal, as she tilted it back and sighed, “Not really.”

It was a stupid question, and Garrus tried to recover his attempt at consoling her because, he suddenly realized, that was the whole reason for leaving the storage deck. “There must be a way we can appeal the Council’s decision, and get them to reverse it.”

Shepard gave a bitter chuckle, followed by, “You know Citadel bureaucracy better than I do, Garrus.”

“That’s true,” Garrus said, subvocals rumbling with budding frustration. “Maybe we can go through the Alliance then, or—” 

“C-sec?” Shepard sarcastically interjected, knowing what was about to escape his mouth. “Why don’t you go convince them to help us?” 

Pep-talks were not Garrus’ forte.

So, after a tense moment, Garrus decided on telling Shepard the truth. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Shepard ran her hand through short hair, as she uncurled her body. Though still seated the floor, her demeanor wasn’t as melancholy as before. “This isn’t your fault,” she said. “I don’t care that they stripped my rank, or grounded the Normandy. Those are insignificant things compared to what’ll happen when Saren findsthe Conduit.” Her voice was regaining the passion Garrus associated with Shepard’s mannerisms. “We’re out of the game for now. But I will find a way back in,” Shepard continued— never one to remain hopeless for very long. 

He felt renewed purpose too. 

“I’m right behind you, Shepard.” It was the first time he ever referred to her as anything other than _commander_ , or _ma’am_ out loud. 

Her name tasted sweet in his mouth. 

Garrus offered her his hand. 

The floor was no place for a woman like Shepard. 

She accepted, and Garrus effortlessly pulled her to her feet— she was much lighter than expected. The momentum tripped her up, causing Shepard to bump into his chest. The top her head only came to the bottom of his keel, and yet he could smell the fragrance of her clean hair. Garrus’ palm cradled her entire hand; two of her fingers equated the width of one of his. Before now, Garrus never noticed how petit Shepard was physically; her presence so bold and empowered.

Without removing her hand from his grasp, or stepping back, Shepard asked, “So, is this the learning experience you thought it would be?” Humor was laced in her words. 

“Didn’t really know what to expect when I signed on with you, but I’m glad I came along,” Garrus answered, a single mandible flared out in a lopsided grin. 

“Me too,” she said, smiling up at him. The back of his neck felt hot. “Given any thought to what you’ll do once this is over?”

“Yeah,” Garrus replied. “I’m back to C-Sec. I think I can make a difference there.” He paused, before continuing. He wasn’t sure how Shepard would react to his next comment, but he sought her validation nonetheless. “And, I’m going to reapply for Spectre training, but I’ll do it right this time. I won’t compromise myself to get there. If the people I’m sworn to protect can’t trust me, then I don’t deserve to be the one protecting them.”

Without hesitating Shepard said, “I know you’ll succeed, Garrus. The universe needs good men like you.” 

It was _better_ than validation; Shepard offered encouragement. 

They stood in silent reprieve— the monumental strife of the mission seeming distant and unimportant. The air of the room was no longer heavy with disappointment, but filled the thrilling tension of something distinctly primal. Shepard’s hand was slowly shifting in his, her fingers flexing to push apart his grip on her digits. Two of her fingers slid between his first and last, small thumb rubbing circles against his. Shepard’s remaining fingers squeezed against edge of his palm. 

It was an oddly appealing display— the unspoken promise of _something else_ , something new Garrus never considered, but wanted to explore. 

And Shepard was just so close, she probably could hear the droning from his second larynx— the droning of desire.

“Sorry to interrupt, Commander,” Joker’s deviously cheerful voice boomed over the intercom. Shepard instantly pulled her hand away, irritated— becoming the _Commander_ once more. She was already walking away. Garrus still felt her fingers between his own, even as the moment was forever gone. Another opportunity for such contact would not rise again before Shepard’s death. Years later, Garrus wondered if it was all just the dream of a burnt-out cop. “Got an urgent call from Captain Anderson— wants you to meet him at Flux,” Joker finished, before disconnecting. 

Flux.

If Omega only had something as tamed as Flux.

+++

Garrus was no stranger to Omega. 

Omega was crimson carbuncle against the perfect beauty of dark space. The enormous mass effect generators pulsed with the steady beat of an old, corroded heart. The haphazard eezo processing facilities were the guts of the station, metal intestines that allowed the slums to sprawl to the surface. The thriving sex-trade was its nerves, and drug trafficking was its veins. The violence and decedancy of the stations primary professions created Omega’s distinct energy, which in turn was distributed to every citizen that carved out a living there. The station secreted its own sort of animalistic heat and stink, which escaped through the grates of the gutters; a foul steam like rotting breath.

The asteroid was, in his opinion, an abomination from the moment it was cracked open. Garrus was not superstitious—most turians weren’t. But, it was difficult to view the hulking piece of rock as anything other than a sentient creature—ever gluttonous and constantly consuming. A beast whose claws wrapped around and pulled all who approached under— _inside_ —never letting them go. Omega's promise of freedom was nothing but the cheapest of bait and it snared the weak-willed only to quietly devour their spirits.

At least docking was uneventful. 

The Carrd District was a relatively stable quarter of Omega. The gangs wagging violent turf wars rarely let their destruction spill into the bustling commercial district. And, while no part of Omega could be described as safe, the Carrd District was accessible, at least. The neon-lit plaza hosted dozens of merchant stalls, whose goods ranged from the mundane to dangerous; everything from outdated salvage, to black market armaments were obtainable— for a price. 

The military surplus outlet occupied one of the largest storefronts in the marketplace, and was owned by a generally unpleasant asari matron named Nik. Flickering red, electric signage surrounded the counter, as did the acerbic smell of smoke. She was never without a lit cigarette perched between her dark lips, nor was she without a loaded Tornado X slung across her back; a simple reminder that Nik was not to be trifled with. Leaning against the countertop, Nik watched Garrus and Shepard as they approached her stand with disinterest. The asari merchant cocked her neck, and Garrus knew that she recognized him. While he had reservations concerning the degeneracy of Omega, Garrus accepted that this was the place to get Shepard properly outfitted with gear. 

The purchases would remain anonymous through his secure, private accounts. If Omega was good for anything, it was disappearing. It was something they desperately needed to do. Garrus couldn’t shake the feeling that hounded him since leaving the Cerberus station— that he and Shepard were being watched. Every dark alleyway, and suspicious passerby whose eyes lingered too long, raised his hackles. 

Experience had taught him not to not mistake intuition for paranoia. 

If Shepard noticed how closely he followed, or stood beside her, she made no mention of it. 

Without preamble, Shepard stepped up to the kiosk. “This is what I’m looking for…” And so, started a long exchange of persuasion, negotiating, and bargaining. By the time Shepard was finished she procured a complete hard-suit from Kassa Fabrication, a M-23 Katana, a set of basic black fatigues and an assortment of levo-amino MREs, all below the standard market-price. 

Nik took a satisfied drag, saying nothing while she swiveled the console towards her, and started to itemize Shepard’s order. After a moment, the asari asked, “Where’re you wanting this delivered?” She never looked up from the computer, and her cigarette bouncing as she spoke. She spun the order screen back around, displaying the invoice total. 

“Kima District,” Garrus answered before entering the address, then prepared to swipe his credit chit. 

“Thank you Garrus, but no,” protested Shepard, seeing him prepare to pay for her supplies. “I was dead, not destitute.” 

Nik glanced up at Shepard— garnet eyes too curious for Garrus’ liking. He knew for a fact, that tactical gear wasn’t the only thing Nik sold here. He had personally bought information from her in the past. 

Garrus caught Shepard’s arm, pulling her away from the vendor’s earshot. “What _are_ you—" she exclaimed. Catching Shepard unaware was a risky maneuver; she never liked being grabbed.

He leaned down, low enough to whisper a warning, “The universe is a vastly different place then when you left it. Use some caution here.” 

Shepard had the audacity to look amused, before she quipped, “A two-year long dirt nap hasn’t made me any less capable, Garrus.” Her breath caressed his jawline. 

“This isn’t about your capabilities. It’s about your _resurrection_.” It was almost too surreal to give voice too, and yet the absolute reality was unquestionable. It was staring up at him with bright eyes, and spoke to him in a smooth, alluring voice. “And the technology, organization, and reason behind it. Someone was sent to that station to murder you, Shepard. Somebody wants you dead. You weren’t supposed to wake up.” 

Garrus struggled to keep his dual-vocal cords hushed; he would kill anyone who came after Shepard, just as surely as he would have shot Wrex on the Citadel. Years ago, Garrus felt immediate guilt as soon as his hand fell away from his pistol; he would feel nothing akin to that now. But, once again, Garrus reminded himself that Shepard didn’t need protection. He 

Up until now, Garrus had neatly compartmentalized the events unfolding before him, but he allowed himself the simple truth, that if Shepard died again, it would devastate him. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Shepard nonchalantly replied, though there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You know that.”

Was Shepard really so desensitized to personal threats, that she could _joke_ about it? 

Garrus stared at her, processing her flippant comment. When he finally spoke, his words were laden with sarcastic awe. “You know, I don’t remember you being _this_ damn stubborn.”

Shepard threw her head back, laughing— the beautiful melody caught him unaware. He had all but forgotten what her laughter sounded like. “Well, maybe you weren’t paying close enough attention,” she softly replied. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Shepard patted his hand reassuringly affectionate. 

Garrus gently squeezed her arm— intending to pull Shepard closer to him, and explain how impossible her request was. But, the streets of Omega were not the place for this conversation, and Garrus was once again hyperaware of their treacherous surroundings.

“Hey. Lovebirds,” Nik said, flicking a burnt-out cigarette butt at their feet. Shepard snapped her head towards her, as did Garrus. Nik was unfazed by the combined force of their glowers— already lighting up another smoke. “Either pay up, or fuck off.”

Garrus said nothing as he swiped his chit, but made damn sure that Nik knew that he was watching her with steely-eyed scrutiny. 

+++

As ill-tempered as Nik was, she ran a tight business. One of her representatives—an asari maiden— was waiting outside the door to his small suite in the Kima District. There was large container laying at her feet, which she was clearly tasked with guarding. A look of relief spread across her face when Garrus and Shepard approached. Garrus couldn’t blame her apprehension; being a courier on Omega was dangerous work. He signed her datapad with a careless stroke of his finger— confirming delivery with an illegible alias— before the girl ran off. 

Garrus reserved the efficiency apartment for his periodic excursions to Omega; it was compact, but clean and secure— two amenities not always guaranteed on the hostile, foreboding mining station.

Shepard immediately tore open one of the MREs— an unappetizing mess that was loaded with the nutrients and energy that could keep a solider running for hours.

Garrus didn’t envy Shepard. 

He’d eaten his fair share of similar slop throughout his life. 

“You mentioned that Liara helped you find me?” Shepard inquired through a spoonful of something that only mildly resembled food. 

“She didn’t help me,” Garrus replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. Shepard claimed a small table in front of the only window. The apartment was a single open space, with both the sleeping and living quarters combined into one area. Only the bathroom was enclosed. “I wouldn’t have even known you were alive without her intel. Liara is a well-respected information broker now.”

Shepard appeared unconvinced. 

“Liara’s changed, Shepard,” Garrus said— though he wouldn’t have believed it himself, if not for their prior meeting on Illium. Despite the differences between the two of them, Liara was responsible for his conversation with Shepard now, and for that, he was grateful. Eventually, he would need to access a private channel with Liara, if only to convey that the mission was successful, and to confirm that she was, indeed, _not paid to be wrong_. “We’ve all changed since you...” And he let the sentence die.

She chewed her food thoughtfully, before continuing. “What’s Wrex up to?” she asked. “Still doing mercenary work?”

“The last time we talked, he was on Tuchanka,” Garrus carefully recalled. He hadn’t received any other correspondences from Wrex in almost a year. “He’s trying to help his people, but I don’t really know the details.”

“That’s great!” Shepard exclaimed. “How about Tali? Bet she told one hell of a story when she got back to the Migrant Fleet.”

“The data you gave Tali from the geth base on Solcrum was a generous gift, Shepard. She successfully completed her Pilgrimage, and is serving aboard the Neema now,” he said. Garrus last spoke to the young quarian about six months ago. Even after seeing Tali in her new intricate environmental suit, it was difficult to view her was anything other than a slightly naïve, though delightfully optimistic gearhead. Garrus like talking to Tali. She reminded him of his sister— Solana— whom was currently not speaking to him. 

Shepard ripped open another package, pulling out a flaky pastry. “Heard anything from Ashley?” she asked, before taking a bite. 

“Williams and I never talked that much on the Normandy,” replied Garrus regretfully. While the Gunnery Chief was often blunt, brash, and initially distrustful of the Normandy’s non-human crew, she was also a capable, exceptional soldier and markswoman. During his obligated service in the Hierarchy’s military, Garrus also held the rank of Gunnery Officer. “That didn’t change with its destruction.”

“I understand,” Shepard said. “Well, what about Joker?”

Flight Lieutenant Jeff “Joker” Moreau was a hot-button subject for Garrus. Rationally, he knew that blaming Joker for Shepard’s death was arbitrary and unacceptable— the unknown vessel was purely at fault. But with those assailants were still at large, and without some tangible _thing_ to take the brunt of his wrath, Garrus decided that Joker was as good a target as any. When Shepard rushed through the fiery havoc of the Normandy’s last moments, she was responding naturally to the demands of her noble spirit. Of course, Shepard was going to put the safety of her crew above her own, and of course, Joker was going to keep trying to pilot his beloved ship, even though it had all but been cleaved in two.

“Not since the Alliance grounded him,” Garrus answered tersely.

Shepard’s eyes widened, “The Alliance grounded the best helmsmen in the fleet?”

Joker’s inability to just abandon ship wasn’t the only justification for Garrus’ resentfulness towards him. Perhaps, it was just that he linked Joker so intimately with the Normandy’s destruction— the simplicity of guilt through association— but thinking of the crippled Flight Lieutenant only reminded Garrus of the underhanded, and outlandish responses from both the Alliance and the Citadel Council after the attack. It was, unfortunately, the opening Garrus needed to start the conversation he’d been dreading since Shepard uttered an incredulous little _Why?_ back at the Cerberus station. 

Shepard must have sensed the shift, because she suddenly changed topics. “I’ve been reading over the data you extracted,” she started. “And, I think…” Shepard trailed off. “I honestly don’t know what to think,” she finished, and Garrus hated how troubled her words and expression were. Despite her prior confidence on his ship and her ability to adapt, Shepard clearly wasn’t disillusioned by the complete absurdity of her circumstances. 

When she spoke again, Shepard sounded distant… almost lost. “It’s like I went to sleep last night, and when I woke up this morning… Everything and everyone has changed. I’m the only thing that’s stayed the same.” There was such a completely unfamiliar vulnerability about her now that Garrus felt unsettled by it. How could someone even start to process their own death? Shepard alone would have to bear the burden of that existential inquiry, for who other than she, would have the answer? 

_No_.

“Shepard…” Garrus said.

 _I won’t let you be alone_.

“I need to…” Shepard muttered, running her hand through her hair, in that strange, over-stressed mannerism that Garrus could remember so perfectly from seemingly simpler times. “What are we even _doing_ here, Garrus?” Shepard suddenly asked, standing up from the table so forcefully that the chair knocked back. “I need to contact the Alliance immediately,” she declared, becoming the stoic Commander again. 

This was comfortable, safe territory that Garrus had experience navigating. The news he was about to deliver was grim, however. “The Alliance declared _you_ dead, Shepard. And how do you think they’d react if they knew it was Cerberus who brought you back?” 

“The Alliance knows that I don’t work for terrorists,” Shepard said.

“Maybe.” Garrus responded more harshly then he intended, but he wasn’t going to budge on this particular topic. “Let me tell you something, Shepard. The Alliance is the reason that _your_ crew got disbanded after the attack, and when the Council backslid on the Reapers, the Alliance didn’t even step up to defend you.”

At the mention of Reapers, Shepard’s eyes lit up. “The Council did _what_?” she blurted out. “Captain Anderson wouldn’t—"

“Councilor Anderson has very little control over what the other three do. He is an outsider. A figurehead. Nothing more." A shame too, because Garrus liked the man. He was sensible, intelligent, and an excellent leader. "The Council doesn’t even know that you’re with me and it needs to stay that way.”

“I’ve been gone for two years!” Shepard spat. “That’s two years that the Reapers have had to gain traction. What’s been done to prepare for the invasion?” There was a desperate, dangerous edge to her voice, and it pained him to give her the answer. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Garrus said.

Shepard started at him with wide, doubting eyes. She then tilted her head, and said, “I’m sorry, I think my translator must’ve just glitched. Because, it sounded suspiciously like you just said—”

This was no time for games.

Garrus rose from his seat, and in a single stride was inches from her. Shepard at least had the good sense to look startled, but not afraid. It was the second time Garrus dared to invade her personal space like this in a single night. “ _Shepard_.” Her name out like both as an assertion, and prayer. “Both the Alliance, and the Council dismissed every claim you made. When you disappeared, you became nothing but an over-worked, disillusioned solder taken in by the lies and charisma of Saren Arterius. The general public never even knew about your death, or heard the real story behind the Battle on the Citadel. Sovereign was discounted as nothing more but an isolated threat—just a geth ship. This is serious.” 

She stepped away from him. “The evidence of what Sovereign really is, was _floating_ in the Presidium’s precious lake!” Every word Shepard said became faster and louder. She threw her hands up in frustration to punctuate the statement. “And they just… denied it all?”

Shepard was starting to pace around the minuscule apartment. Garrus could see how tense her shoulders and back were, even through the loose material of her shirt. Her fingers clenched into fists, and her eyes were focused on everything, yet nothing at all.

Garrus understood what she was going through; the feeling of being powerless, and he hated it for her. 

“Yes. That is what I’m telling you,” Garrus said. “The Council’s been more concerned with returning to the status quo than preparing for the inevitable destruction of all organic life. The only thing that’s changed on the Citadel is some added security at the port. There’s some bad shit going on, Shepard. And no one is doing anything about it.” 

Shepard suddenly jabbed a finger in his direction, and with a vicious snarl asked, “Have _you_ even tried—”

Garrus didn’t let her finish her accusation. “I’ve been trying since you died, Shepard!” Garrus snapped. Even saying that word— _died_ — was enough to make him feel sick inside. “And, I’m in a better position than most,” he continued, referring to his Spectre status. “But, I’m just one man.”

After a moment, took a small breath, picked up the chair she knocked over, and sat back down. “I know you have, Garrus,” Shepard said, composed once again. “Are we really the only ones aware of them?”

“As far as I can tell, Cerberus is the only organization that is taking the threat seriously,” Garrus replied grimly. 

“Well, isn’t that some shit,” Shepard muttered.

Garrus was matter-of-fact with what he said next, “Like it or not, this is what we’re working with.”

“Well, do you have any suggestions?” she asked.

Garrus didn’t even realize his mandibles were spread into a smile until it happened. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that it felt good to offer Shepard some advice, just like it felt good to offer her protection. “Defaulting to my judgement, Shepard?” Garrus teased, and a slight pressure lifted off his heart. He'd not even known it was there until it was gone. 

She returned his smile. “Well, clearly I’m outta touch.”

“I say, we lay low,” he proposed confidently. “We’re not totally helpless, we just need to bide our time.”

“Hm. Time is a luxury we don’t have.” Shepard sad, looking through the window, watching—waiting— for something that wasn’t on the horizon yet, but was surely hurtling towards them.

Garrus didn’t feel the need to remind Shepard that she was preaching to the choir.

End Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Five
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: Thanks flux_eterna for beta reading!
> 
> +++

There was a peaceful, silent break in their otherwise serious conversation, and Garrus embraced the moment to simply watch Shepard. She was still peering out of the window, focused intently on an unseen vista. The apartment was dim and Garrus preferred it that way— less lighting meant that they were less likely to draw unwanted attention to their location. The red illumination of Omega creeped in through the metal blinds, cutting harsh lines across Shepard’s silhouette at the table. The severe highlights took nothing away from her appearance—she was beautiful and always had been. 

And, she was alive—and so were countless possibilities. 

The same feeling that he felt years ago on the habitation deck—desire, _hunger_ —echoed in his heart, and Garrus had to look away from Shepard, lest emotion overtake his reasoning. He couldn’t risk becoming distracted by…

Garrus glanced back over to Shepard before he could stop himself. 

He wouldn’t be fooled into thinking they were safe, but at least they had this repose. It was in that stillness that the events from the day came crashing down, and fatigue hit Garrus without warning. Military-trained conditioning prevented him from feeling the overwhelming stress that came with his line of work— that of a former C-Sec investigator and current Spectre agent. Even when he’d received word of Shepard’s death (by far one of the worst day of his life) Garrus had been able to push through the grief and complete his mission. 

He’d been in mourning ever since, yet learned to function through the sorrow and anger. 

Not live, but _function_. 

Shepard turned away from the window to face him. “You’re tired, Garrus,” she commented softly. 

He couldn’t even begin to tell Shepard how right she was—he was exhausted. The persistent sense that they were being followed surfaced again. He hadn’t shared their destination with anyone. Not even Shepard knew where they were going until he programmed the location into the ship’s navigation systems. The shadowy figure at the station was one thing—it was easy to reason that whoever that asari was, she could have been nothing but a mercenary lucky enough to have survived the onslaught. Though, even that seemed farfetched. Garrus didn’t believe in coincidences, not anymore. Whoever masterminded the assault against Cerberus meant for their agent to arrive when she did. What was more disturbing still, was that Garrus swore that he’d seen that asari before, but couldn’t place her. 

“I’m good,” he answered, absent-mindedly. 

And then, there was Omega with its omnipotent ruler—Aria T’Loak—whom did not take kindly to Spectres being on her station. Aria had personally informed him of that fact in the past. Everyone on Omega worked for Aria—whether they realized it or not— and it wasn’t unreasonable to believe that Nik hadn’t already passed on their location to one of her informants, or Aria herself. The domineering asari would no doubt demand an audience with not just one Spectre, but a second seemingly dead one too.

“You _look_ good,” Shepard said with a coy smile. Her words instantly broke Garrus out of his thought process. Surely, he didn’t hear her correctly, because it sounded suspiciously like she was flirting with him.

“Do I?” Garrus asked, with a flick of a mandible. He sounded far more eager than he intended. 

“Yeah,” she confirmed sweetly. 

Maybe, their past interactions didn’t only weigh on his mind. If anything, the moment would be fresher in Shepard’s recollections, where he could only cling to the broken fragments of memory muddled by age. 

She was watching him with bright eyes when it suddenly struck him how just how healthy, and vibrant Shepard seemed— the result of medical science perfected into a single specimen. 

The cold hand of anxiety twisted his gut once again, and the reason Garrus couldn’t shake the suspicion of being pursued was seated plainly in front of him.

Shepard was an investment— one that Cerberus would likely not be willing to part with so easily, or turn loose into the universe without the means of tracking her down. Neither he, nor Shepard had the opportunity to comb through every bit of information extracted from the Cerberus station. There was a chance that they missed something crucial buried within all that data— something pertaining not only to the upgrades planted within Shepard, but also to other far more sinister augmentations as well. 

_What have they done to you?_

“Shepard, I think you need to see a doctor,” Garrus said, breaking the pleasant tension between the two of them. 

Her smile faded. “Why would I want to do that?” Shepard asked, perplexed. “I feel great.”

“That’s the thing,” Garrus said. “You’ve been comatose, or worse for two years. It’d be in your best interest to get checked out by a non-Cerberus medical professional.”

Shepard seemed unconvinced— her eyes were drifting towards the window again. 

“Think about it,” he urged. Shepard turned back to him. “What if Cerberus put something like a control chip in you? Or a way to track your movements? You don’t actually know what they’ve done to your body.”

She appeared startled as his words sank in. “I guess a check-up couldn’t hurt,” Shepard conceded after a moment. 

“There’s a clinic in the Gozu District. A salarian doctor runs it— Mordin Solus. He’s brilliant, and quite discreet.” Garrus internally grimaced, before elaborating. “I’ve been patched up there once or twice, when I’ve come here for… business.”

“ _Business_ , huh?” Shepard grinned, and leaned forward in her seat. “Didn’t think the Council had any authority out in the Terminus systems.”

Garrus ignored her comment. He wouldn’t be deflected so easily. “The sooner we go, the better.”

“I thought you wanted to lay low awhile.” Shepard started to shuffle through the crates on the floor, pulling out the civilian attire.

“I doubt going to the clinic will be a production,” said Garrus. 

“You never know.” Shepard stood, fresh clothing in hand. “I’m taking a shower before we do anything. I smell disgusting.” Garrus silently disagreed; she didn’t. “And, I can’t stand wearing this anymore.” Shepard punctuated her statement by motioning a hand at the baggy Cerberus uniform that she currently drowned in. “Plus, you need to hit the rack. We can leave in a few hours.”

It would seem that death itself couldn’t stop Shepard from being the Commander.

A small part of him bristled at her perceived authority. It would have been easy to protest— to remind Shepard just how little control she currently wielded over him, or anything else in the universe. That same part wanted to also emphasize that all her worldly possessions were currently located in a single crate on the floor, and that she had _nothing_. But, a much larger part of his psyche knew that it simply wasn’t true. 

Shepard had her authentic self— an exemplary mix of compassion, confidence, and courage— which was more than what most other sentient beings could claim. 

And, Garrus honestly wouldn’t remember the last time someone was looking out for him. Ironically, it was probably Wrex, when he had the presence of mind to personally alert Garrus to Shepard’s death.

“What about you?” he asked, still not entirely trusting her health, even though it was plain enough to see.

“I told you, I’m feeling great,” she said, dismissing his concern. “Anyway, pretty sure you’ve been awake longer than I have.”

“To be certain,” said Garrus, but his resentfulness was momentary. The offer of rest was just too good to pass up. He pulled his arsenal free from the mass effect barrier that held his weaponry in place. He wouldn’t undress—the reason not being modesty but readiness. A combat suit wasn’t ideal to lay in, but discomfort trumped negligence. The bed was small, but cushy, with plenty of support for his cowl. It was designed for turians, and another surreal wave crashed into him. He never expected anyone else would be in the safehouse, no human or otherwise, and especially not Shepard. As with his ship, Garrus had very little in the way of accommodations for her. 

But, like on the vessel, Shepard didn’t seem bothered. 

Garrus fell asleep listening to the water pattering against the tiles of the shower, and if the universe was a kinder place he would have dreamt of nothing. Instead, his last encounter with Urdnot Wrex invaded his mind. It was unsurprising. He’d thought more about the krogan in the last twelve hours than he had in the last two years. 

Luckily, Garrus was between missions from the Council and had been on the Citadel when Wrex reached out to him. From the tone of the message it seemed to be urgent. They had not spoken since Shepard’s death. 

“I miss Chora’s Den,” Wrex lamented, sending a scornful eye around the Dark Star Lounge as soon as Garrus was within earshot. The krogan was out of place in the posh club where, despite being tucked away in one the dimly-lit booths towards the back, his hulking form proved impossible to hide. 

Garrus just shook his head, annoyed. This wasn’t the pressing matter that he was led to believe. “What’s this all about, Wrex?” Garrus asked, now irritated. 

Wrex took a swig from his drink. “What?” he said, with an air of amusement. “Don’t have time for an old friend?”

Garrus crossed his arms. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Maybe…” Wrex muttered, and Garrus scowled at the krogan’s ambiguous answer. 

An asari server approached their table, curiosity barely hidden on her face because turians and krogan didn’t typically sit together. “Bartender says you’re cut off after this one, Wrex,” she warned, before taking their orders. 

Wrex drained the rest of his glass. “Fine. One more. I’m leavin’ soon anyway, sweetheart.” The server rolled her eyes, before fixing Garrus an expectant stare. He ordered nothing, and the asari gratefully walked away.

Wrex spun the cubes against the glass of his new drink, considering his next words. “Shepard changed things,” he said solemnly, and Garrus felt his chest tighten at her name. He turned to Wrex, and noticed that whilst he did reek of ryncol, he wasn’t entirely drunk yet.

Garrus waited for him to continue. 

“Remember the argument she and I had on Virmire?” Wrex asked pensively, crimson eyes focused on nothing but the past. “That damn cloning facility…” he said, through gritted teeth. “Sometimes, I wished she would’ve put that bullet in me. It would have been a good death. Killed by her… that little human.”

“Wrex…” Garrus started, but the krogan just shook his large head. 

“That’s not what I mean. I ain’t stupid,” he scoffed. “It’s just that life was easier before she stormed in. What is it about Shepard that inspires people to try a little harder, do a little better?” A rhetorical question, and one that Garrus often turned over in his own mind. “Those are dangerous qualities in this day and age. It’s easier to be a selfish asshole,” Wrex continued, staring into his glass, before he looked up at Garrus’ with resolve. Finally, the real reason behind his summons being revealed. “I’m going home,” Wrex said. “To Tuchanka.” 

Garrus didn’t need, or ask him to elaborate. He knew enough about Wrex, and his relationship with the father who would have committed filicide if Wrex hadn’t murdered him first, to know that returning to Tuchanka was more than an act of salvation or expiation. 

Garrus suddenly felt a wave of anxiety pass for the old Battlemaster. Whatever task Wrex was about to undertake, it would likely be paid for in blood. And, that alone likely meant the effort was momentous, and worth the danger. “Wrex, that’s—” 

Wrex just shook his head again, cutting off any praise that Garrus was going to utter. “Necessary.” Wrex finished with finality. “Who else is going to advocate for the krogan? No one. No one, but ourselves.” He finished the rest of his glass, standing to leave. “Shepard _changed_ things,” Wrex repeated. “Don’t let her death change you.” 

Whatever Garrus expected Wrex to say, it certainly wasn’t that. And, for the second time in their brief reunion, Garrus clenched his jaw at sound her name— uncomfortable and angry at Wrex’s insightfulness.

“See you around, kid,” Wrex said, walking away. 

Eight months later, Garrus would reach out to him, receiving an vague report back from Wrex about uniting the krogan tribes. 

When he woke, the apartment was dark, save for the red-glow through the blinds. Shepard’s head rested in her hand, eyes staring out the window again. There was a gun by her elbow, her free hand placed against the grip. If Garrus didn’t know any better, he swore she was guarding him. 

“Bad dream?” she asked quietly, without turning around. “Heard you _rumbling_ over there.”

Garrus sat up, running a hand over his face. “No,” he answered. “It was just a… dream.”

Shepard stood, sliding the pistol into the hostler at her hip. The fatigues she bargained from Nik were basic, dark and fit properly. Her hair was now pulled back from her face, and Garrus found that it was easier to observe her— the Commander left standing where once there was only a waif.

“I didn’t ask you, Garrus,” she said, approaching him. “How have _you_ been?” 

Shepard sat down next to him, her bare feet propped up on the edge of the mattress; casual, friendly, and intimate. Her hand was close to his. Her remembered the weight of it through his armor, wanted to know what it would feel like against his bare skin. She smelled of his shower gel, and it was oddly appealing. 

“Becoming a Spectre has been… satisfying,” Garrus replied after a moment. 

“Satisfying?” Shepard echoed, tilting her head.

“It’s been a good change of pace for me,” he elaborated. “I feel like… I’m finally making a difference.”

“Good,” Shepard said, smiling. “I know that’s what you’ve always wanted. So, you’re _happy_?” Garrus couldn’t miss the hopefulness in her voice, and suddenly felt like there was a sniper’s mark was darting between his eyes— frozen in place and terrified.

There had been moments of something that resembled happiness since Shepard death, but they were all temporary and fleeting. The elation of completing a mission, or the high of punishing criminals, but those episodes were always infused with detachment. Occasions of false happiness, passing off as permanent only to dissolve at just how cheaply it was produced.

He glanced over to Shepard’s expectant face— the once dead muse who fueled his vengeance. 

He couldn’t give her an honest answer. 

So instead of lying, he stood. Garrus picked up his rifle, quickly checked it, before asking, “Are you ready to leave for the clinic?” 

+++

Garrus’ earlier assumption about the status of his presence on Omega proved to be correct.

Captain Preitor Gavorn, a dark eyed turian, was leaning against a heavily graffitied wall as soon he and Shepard emerged from the shuttle. While all of Omega was held tightly in Aria’s grip, they were entering the territory closest to her debauched, neon-lit stronghold. The bass from that glorified strip club could be heard even from where they stood, blocks away.

He’d met Gavorn once before, and although the circumstances had been less than ideal, Garrus held no animosity towards the man. The Captain did respectable work, and Omega was better for his efforts against the vorcha. Gavorn approached them, the muzzle of his sniper rifle towards the ground and finger outside the trigger guard. Judging from his body language, whatever the Caption wanted, Garrus doubted it was anything combative. 

“Aria isn’t enthusiastic about your visit,” Gavorn said nonchalantly, once he was close enough. “It might be beneficial for you, and your friend,” he tipped his head civilly towards Shepard, “to head over to Afterlife, and state your business to the boss.” 

“Is this an order, or a request?” asked Garrus tersely. “I don’t owe either to Aria.”

A bitter snicker escaped Gavorn’s throat, telling Garrus exactly what the Captain thought of his answer. “It’s a _suggestion_ ,” said Gavorn after he regained his composure. “And, likely the only one you’ll get.”

“What’s going on?” demanded Shepard. She crossed her arms, the ceramic plating of her gauntlets sliding abrasively together. “We’re not here to cause trouble for anyone.”

“ _You_ might not be,” replied Gavorn, casting his eyes down to her. “But, Omega and Vakarian don’t play well together.” Out of his peripheral, Garrus saw Shepard glanced up at him while raising a curious eyebrow. 

“We’re going to the Gozu District,” Garrus offered diplomatically. He wanted to leave the open transport depot as soon as possible. Already, they were too exposed. “When we’re finished, we’ll go to Afterlife if there’s time.”

“Make time, especially since Aria is still in the mood to talk, and not toss you off the station through the nearest airlock yet,” scoffed Gavorn, taking a step back. “By the way, watch your step down there. The Blue Suns and Blood Pack have really been squabbling over that territory lately.” Gavorn turned to leave, calling out as he walked away, “And, when you see any vorcha in the slums… make sure you aim for the head.”

Garrus guided Shepard through a few narrow alleyways, trying his damnedest to ignore the stagnant miasma, the sounds of broken glass under foot, and the weight of Shepard’s gaze on the back of his neck. Two of those issues waned to manageable levels when they departed the crooked passageway, but the third gained in intensity.

“So, you and Omega.” Shepard stated, as they rounded a corner, leading to a stairwell. They would arrive at a rarely used service elevator soon, and from there could descend into the Gozu District. “You really seem to despise this place, but you obviously know the area like the back of your hand.” 

A single utility bulb flickered next to the elevator, bathing them in intermediate bursts of harsh fluorescent illumination, and darkness. The access code hadn’t changed since the last time he’d entered it into the keypad, and the hydraulics groaned to life. “Like I said, I’ve been here on business,” Garrus said obscurely.

“Uh huh.” There was a hint of amusement to Shepard’s otherwise skeptical interjection. He turned to look at her, but she was facing away from him, surveying the stairwell. She had drawn her shotgun and was in a ready position. There wasn’t much room to maneuver in the alley, and there was certainly nothing that resembled cover. To be caught unaware in this space would be a tactical nightmare. Shepard was insuring their shared safety, and existence with her vigilance. 

The tarnished metal door screeched open, and it was only when they were secured inside, that Shepard looked up at him. She didn’t put her gun away. 

Shepard didn’t press him for any other details about his familiarity with Omega. But, after a moment of silence he finally volunteered, “…The short version of the story is that I came here to track down, and then disrupt some shipments of tainted eezo.”

“…On the Council’s behalf?” she asked. 

“No, just an… independent undertaking,” he admitted, even though Shepard already knew the answer. “Anyway, I pissed off a lot of people. For _some_ reason, criminals get upset when they start losing credits.”

“I just can’t possibly imagine _why_ ,” Shepard said, matching his sarcastic inflection with a smile. She shook her head, adding with sincerity, “You’ve certainly never lacked for righteous goals, Garrus.”

“Heh. Well, you’re not wrong,” he chuckled, their banter easy and natural, as if no time had passed at all. The elevator shaft slowed, and Garrus pulled his rifle. 

Shepard pressed herself against the side of wall, seeking what little cover was offered. “Was that the only reason you came here?” she asked.

“No,” Garrus answered, moving into his own cover. They were positioned on either side of the automated door, and when the elevator opened, the fusillade of gunfire ricocheted through the lower levels of Kokomo Plaza.

“And, you didn’t think this would be a _production_ ,” Shepard said playfully, and Garrus grinned at her audacity—he’d missed her, and her damned boldness so much.

She took a quick peek from behind of the door, before acknowledging that it was all clear. Despite the disorienting echo off the walls of the dilapidated residential district, Garrus estimated that the actual firefight was less than four hundred meters away. With only two of them, they would need rotate point position, and move cautiously. 

Shepard was trailing closely behind him, her steps falling into the rhythm of his own, when she softly asked, “It hasn’t been all bad, has it?”

The palpable concern in her voice instantly ate away his smile. Nothing made it past Shepard, and Garrus chided himself for entertaining the thought that she would somehow just drop their conversation from earlier. His inability to answer was confirmation enough to Shepard about the state of things in his life. 

But, he didn’t need Shepard analyzing his psyche or motivations, so this time he simply said, “It’s just good to have you back, Shepard.”

End Chapter Five


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Six
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: Thanks flux_eterna for beta reading!
> 
> +++

There was something about urban warfare that always set Garrus’ nerves on edge, despite training that habituated him to the physiological response of terror.

Urban conflicts were very different from conventional open area combat. It was war at its dirtiest, with collateral damage difficult to avoid and a high potential for disorganization. Units often found themselves in a confused tangle of friend and foe. Any hollowed building could be turned into a stronghold and pose a major obstacle, due to enhanced concealment and cover for defenders. It was all about guerrilla tactics—ambushes, snipers, booby traps, and shotguns.

The close proximity of walls and buildings could equally be a blessing and a curse, providing cover one moment, only to turn into a point of ambush the next. They hugged those partitions now, echoes of gunfire ebbing and flowing in the distance, and Garrus was grateful that the duality of the structures remained advantageous. 

They left the safety of the alley, only to enter the aftermath of a recent skirmish— one that the Blue Suns had not fared well in, if the blood and bodies of their dead were any indication. A few empty shipping containers laid about, and Garrus guessed that whatever the Blue Suns had been transporting was now stashed away in the rampart ahead that bore the Blood Pack insignia. 

They slowed their pace, approaching carefully. 

An armed vorcha sentry suddenly emerged from behind the impasse, eyes bulging upon catching sight of them. “Reinforcements! This not your territory anymore!” the vorcha screeched. Garrus could see the creature’s gnarled fingers curl around the pistol’s grip. There was scant time for negotiations, if reasoning with the Blood Pack was even an option. 

“Do we look like we’re with the Blue Suns?” Shepard shouted back. The vorcha made an indistinguishable, frustrated wail in response. A heavily armored krogan stomped out from behind the makeshift barricade, the shrill outcry alerting him to the situation. From the looks of the armaments he carried, he filled the role of the overseer of this Blood Pack squad. 

“I see an armed turian and a human,” the krogan fumed through gritted teeth. He shook with barely contained fury. “So, you either turn around or—"

“We’re Spectres,” Garrus said, cutting him off. His patience was wearing thin, and this was the only warning he intended to give. “Let us pass.”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ who you are!” the krogan bellowed, giving Shepard and Garrus enough of a hint to take cover, before the volley of projectiles tore through the air. 

The abandoned crates wouldn’t have the strength to hold up in a prolonged firefight. They would need to end this confrontation quickly.

“These guys are idiots!” Shepard exclaimed, ducking her head to avoid erratic gunshots.

“About to be dead idiots,” Garrus said, adrenaline kicking in. A brief respite brought on by reloading, allowed Garrus both the opportunity to aim an overload in their direction, and to study their formation. “They’re packed together pretty tightly,” Garrus called out. “Three vorcha, and the krogan.”

One of the vorcha struggled with his weapon, now overheated and unable to fire. Precious seconds bought, but time enough for Shepard to jut out, and direct a biotic pull towards the panicked brute. 

Garrus followed her attack with a well-placed shot to the shock trooper— dead.

One down; falling back into the cadence of combat with Shepard was effortless.

The afterglow of electric blue still rippled on her fingertips as Shepard knelt low. 

“Not seeing too many weak points in their defense,” Garrus said. A new bout of gunfire whistled through the air. The Blood Pack had the advantage of thermal clips but lacked accuracy. 

“So, I’ll make one,” Shepard reasoned with a cocky smirk, her love of battle lighting up her features. Shepard’s fighting style had always been high-risk, high-reward and Garrus could never argue with the results. As soon an opening broke, Shepard darted out of cover, radiating a sapphire aura. She charged past him, closing the distance between the remaining Blood Pack and herself in a blink. The impact broke the blockade, and sent their enemies scattering.

She fired the Katana once at the krogan, the close-range shot killing the overseer before the ejector expelled the used cartridge. 

Even with the main threat neutralized, the vorcha couldn’t be underestimated. They were quick to recover. One hissed, before lunging at Shepard, only to have his face struck with the butt of her shotgun. He staggered back, disoriented. The other attempted to reload, but Garrus already had him in his sights. He pulled the trigger, hitting the mark.

Garrus gave the area one more pass with his rifle, confirming no additional hostiles. He jogged over to Shepard, now standing over the surviving vorcha who laid crumpled on the ground.

“Are there any other Blood Pack in the area?” Shepard questioned calmly. 

The vorcha clutched his face, blood running between thick knuckles. “Tell you nothing!” came the muffled reply. In Garrus’ opinion, it would’ve been easier to just kill the creature. He was already acting too cagey for Garrus’ liking and getting pertinent information from vorcha was almost impossible. They were both stupid and pain tolerant. But, he was content to let Shepard try her methods, for now at least. Her success rate was just as good as the more intensive forms of interrogation that C-Sec taught him. 

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose, a funny little mannerism that Garrus recognized as frustration. “We can do this the easy way, or—" she began with a sigh, but was cut off by howl from a maw full of teeth like broken needles. It was the only alert that Shepard got before the vorcha pounced. She drew her gun, and Garrus’ vision narrowed, sudden rage washing over him at the sheer impertinence of the beast. He caught the vorcha around the neck, halting the animalistic aggression in an instant. When he shoved the shock trooper back, he fired a bullet through his pronged head and Garrus stopped his belligerence permanently. 

He looked back over to Shepard. She was unharmed, but shocked. “Was that really necessary?” she said. 

“Gavorn said to aim for the heads,” Garrus replied dismissively, walking past her to investigate the makeshift garrison. It was in a state of filthy disarray that smelled horrible but was well stocked with stolen munitions. He took two thermal clips, enough to fill his off-hand ammo pack, and took two more for Shepard. 

“Just never seen you execute anybody like that before,” Shepard continued, looking over the empty plaza. “Especially an _unarmed_ assailant.”

Garrus didn’t realize that this was a conversation that needed to be continued, and he scowled with irritation. He didn’t need to defend his actions, but if Shepard wanted an explanation he could oblige. “Criminals need to learn their place,” Garrus said. “That vorcha may have been unarmed but wasn’t innocent.”

Shepard just shook her head. “Do you seriously believe that a _single_ vorcha could’ve torn _me_ apart?” she asked incredulously. 

“I know what you’re capable of, but that’s not the point,” Garrus said. “The point is they all need to be kept in check—criminals, mercenaries, politicians, scavengers. And if not us, _who_? Omega doesn't have any sort of law enforcement, and the justice system everywhere else is broken and corrupt. That’s something I can attest to personally.” Garrus held out the extra clips. “And, I would think that’s something you can understand, too.”

Shepard snatched them out of his hand. “Mercy isn’t a weakness, Garrus."

Garrus almost laughed, but instead scoffed out, “Mercy is for the courts.”

+++

They met with no other resistance, and evidence of combat was noticeably less apparent as they pressed deeper into the Gozu District. It must have been bothering Shepard, because she spoke for the first since the incident with the vorcha. “Strange. There isn’t as much destruction as we get closer to the clinic. You’d think it’d be a prime target of gang warfare. All those drugs, and medi-gel…” Her speculations trailed off.

“It would take a certain brand of stupid to try and take this place,” Garrus told her. “The doctor doesn’t screw around.”

Shepard gave a small chuckle from behind him. “What’s his deal?”

“Don’t know,” Garrus said. “But, I’ve heard rumors that Mordin Solus was a member of the STG. Regardless of if that’s true, he carries around a submachine gun and doesn’t hesitate to use it.”

The clinic hadn’t changed much since Garrus last saw it. It was as derelict as the rest of the Gozu District, but there were three armored mechs stationed outside the entrance. Its neglected exterior wasn’t a fair representation of the quality of care located inside, though. The medical center was more than just a place to receive treatment. It was a haven, a safety-net where the ill come for medicine, the wounded come for help, and the dying come for miracles. The clinic on Omega always stank of trauma, but the scent of hope was also startlingly pungent. 

But, the anatomy of a clinic (in particular, a clinical waiting room) was a complex one. Nervous energy was constantly shifting due to the private experiences of each poor soul in cheap, metal chairs. Seated uncomfortably close to strangers, with the element of the unknown and edginess accumulating into exasperated sighs and silent whimpers of pain. 

Both the waiting room and corridors were full when Garrus last came but were empty now. The trek to the clinic proved too risky for the average person to make, even with the security measures placed outside— the results of the current gang violence saturating the Goza District.

Mordin Solus intercepted them almost immediately, forgoing any sort of registration process. He was far older than any other salarian Garrus had met, with Councilor Valern being the only exception. But, while Valern lorded in the Tower on the Presidium with the rest of the Council, Mordin carried himself with composed humility. Whether the hearsay about Mordin’s former STG involvement was true, the salarian had lead a dangerous life before opening his practice on Omega. The thick scars that crisscrossed his face, in addition to his mangled right cranial horn, was evidence enough.

“Garrus,” Mordin greeted amiability. “Good to see you again, though hope you’re here for something less serious than a gunshot wound.” 

“Nothing like that this time,” Garrus said, inflection matching Mordin’s own jovial tones; it was difficult to be anything other than at ease with the doctor. “My friend needs a…”

“I’ve recently gotten out of a coma,” Shepard lied. “Just looking for a checkup.”

It wasn’t a creative bluff, and she stumbled over the words, but Garrus was pleased by her response. The warning he issued in the middle of the Carrd District hadn’t fallen upon deaf ears. 

“Discharge from original hospital not adequate enough for you?” Mordin curiously asked. 

“…no.”

He observed Shepard thoughtfully before nodding. “Follow me to the examine room,” he said, ushering them into a hallway. Mordin’s white lab coat billowed as he turned and, sure enough, there was a M-12 Locust under the loose material. 

Garrus watched as approval lit up Shepard’s face.

Mordin patted the exam table, and Shepard begrudgingly took a seat on it. “Name?” he inquired. 

“Shepard.”

He glanced over to Garrus, a knowing smile tugging the edges of his mouth. “Professor Solus, pleased to make acquaintance.” He dipped his head politely in greeting. “Would dare say, heard an awful lot about you,” he added, then activated his omni-tool. When series of medical charts and monitors loaded, Mordin scanned Shepard left to right. “Checking vitals now,” he stated. “…BT, BP, HR, and RR all within satisfactory range…” Mordin rapidly muttered to himself. “Very healthy, Shepard,” he clarified louder. 

Garrus ignored the accusatory look she cut in his direction. 

Mordin continued with the exam. “Hm. Interesting physiology. Scans indicate no signs of outward trauma to integumentary system, but heavy synthetic augmentations throughout musculoskeletal system.” He tapped his chin with a long finger. “Would expect some indication of surgical incision, at least…” 

Mordin regarded Shepard with interest. 

“So how did those augmentations get inside of you?” Mordin asked rhetorically. He placed his hands just under Shepard’s jaw, moving her head gently to the side, examining her for some invisible clue. “Most logical conclusion is that you were repaired from the inside out,” he mused, and his black eyes widen. “Logical conclusion is, of course, most likely…”

He dropped his hands. “Would really like you keep you around for more tests…” Shepard narrowed her eyes, shutting down Mordin’s suggestion. “However, can see you’re in hurry,” he amended. “So, unless concerned with any other matters, present clean bill of health.” 

Shepard nonchalantly leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee. “… so, in your professional opinion, do you think that there are any tracking devices in me?”

Garrus snorted back laughter. 

As much as she tried, but the woman just didn’t possess subtlety. 

It barely took a second for Mordin to process her awkward question. “Would conclude that there are no monitoring instrumentations fixed within anatomy,” he assured her. In a completely serious tone, he followed up with, “Mechanisms like that tend to produce abnormally high heat signatures.” 

Shepard hopped off the exam table. “You just happen to know that, professor?” 

Mordin gave Shepard a tight-lipped smile as an answer.

“Medical ethics views the duty of confidentiality as non-negotiable tenet of medical practice,” Mordin said, changing the subject. “However, doubt you’ll have the benefit of secrecy much longer.” He motioned towards the exit. “Will escort you out.”

They hovered by the door, the momentary safety from the clinic slowing their steps. Mordin looked mournfully at his vacant waiting room, prompting Garrus to ask, “What are you going to do about the mercs?”

“Eventually, will have to go out and kill them. Can’t have patients unable to get care. Working for common good of Omega, after all,” he explained without missing a beat. “Would like to eliminate ‘white coat anxiety’ that most sapient species have towards doctors. Eliminating clashing mercs groups seems like good step towards realization of goals.” Mordin noticed the skeptical expression on Shepard’s face, and he turned towards her. “Won’t be as difficult as it seems. Just need to find the root of cause.”

They turned to leave. “Thanks, Mordin,” Shepard said.

“Of course. Always glad to help members of Special Tactics and Reconnaissance.”

+++

“All _that_ just to see a doctor,” Shepard said, once they left the clinic. Though gunshots still echoed in the distance, no force from either side tried to bombard them. It was fortunate for the gangs. When they passed the broken Blood Pack site, Shepard’s eyes lingered on the dead bodies that lay there. “I hope it satisfied you,” she somberly remarked.

“It did,” Garrus said. “Makes me feel like we can start planning to get off this station. Mordin’s right, we’re not gonna be able to hide for very long.” Garrus entered the service elevator codes once again; it was easier to leave the way they came. 

“Nor _should_ we,” Shepard said. “I understand your caution, and appreciate it, but ours isn’t a life of shelter.” Her demeanor was visibly different now, hyper focused on the mission. It was an aspect of her personality that he could comfortably navigate. “Did you happen to recognize that asari that tailed us back at the Cerberus facility?”

Garrus wasn’t able to catch a good look at her through his scope, but the blur of blue and white armor seemed familiar. However, that was a fairly common color scheme in the numerous private military companies spread throughout the universe. “… maybe, but I can’t be certain.”

Gavorn was waiting for them in the alley near Aria’s club, and his rifle was no longer tactfully lowered towards the ground. “Afterlife. _Now_ ,” he ordered. “Aria’s about to lose her shit. And I don’t have time to keep playing messenger.”

This was the inevitable risk of coming to Omega and was no longer avoidable. 

Gavorn practically marched them to the entrance.

There was a lengthy line outside the Afterlife Club that was growing steadily by the minute. An annoyed elcor bouncer was posted outside the venue, regulating overly eager or drunk customers. He waved them through with a slow, deliberate tilt of his head, much to the chagrin of those waiting in queue.

The bass was thunderous and the neon signs lining the walls were harsh in the otherwise shadowy club. The atmospheric tension was thick with perfume, cigarette smoke, and sexual frisson. Multicolored lights synced to the rhythm of the music on the crowded dance floor. A number of patrons clustered around the lit-up bar, vying for a chance to get served exorbitantly priced drinks.

“Oh, wow…” Shepard uttered, as she took in the ambience. “This place is—”

“A shithole,” finished Garrus dryly. 

Shepard laughed. “What?” She moved closer to him and raised her voice. “You don’t like to dance?”

“Do you?” he asked, as easy smile tugging at his mandibles, despite how much he hated the environment.

“Dancing isn’t something I excel at,” Shepard explained, still grinning.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not here to dance,” Garrus said.

They made their way through the crowd. Sweaty, dancing bodies pressed, and rubbed up against them both. Garrus possessed height, but Shepard had presence, and the throng of hedonists parted for them both in equal measure. She moved with the surefooted grace that Garrus recognized as her motions, hair reflecting the spectrum of colored strobes that flashed in the rhythm of ambient techno. As unimportant as it was, Garrus hoped she’d decide to keep the long strands; he liked the length on her.

Shepard turned her head up, just enough to catch him staring. Her lips started to part, as if to say something, but they were already standing at the first flight of stairs that would lead up to Omega’s de facto ruler. There stood one of her surly, batarian bodyguards. “You’re late,” he grumbled in a deep, guttural voice. “Aria was expecting you hours ago.”

Garrus glared at him, annoyed. “Aria can’t always have everything she wants."

The bodyguard bared sharp, crooked teeth. “Don’t tell her that if you value keeping your head attached to your neck. Now, go.”

“How did one person wind up to being in charge of an entire outlaw station?” Garrus heard Shepard mutter as they walked up.

“By being stronger, faster, and more ruthless than the rest,” Garrus replied. “The same as any other predator.”

They approached the balcony, darker then the rest of the club. Aria stood in the center, overlooking the dancefloor, silhouette bathed in garish pink light. She spun on a heel as they neared. “Well, if it isn’t my _favorite_ stubborn, idealistic asshole,” sneered Aria, eyeing Garrus with contempt.

“Aria,” he greeted tactfully. He was in no position to invoke the wrath of an asari matriarch, especially one with the sort of short fuse Aria possessed.

Aria rolled her eyes. “Still trying to do good on Omega?” she asked. “Well, there is no _good_ on Omega!” Aria spat, before Garrus could get a word in edgewise. His eyes drifted over Aria’s shoulder. Garrus could make out some of the patrons below, and through their revelry lurked the ever-present desperation of life on this station; empty eyes, clenched jaws, and the inability to just be still.

The asari continued to ramble on hatefully. “—Omega isn’t your goddamned little project—”

Aria’s tirade in conjunction with the electronica and falsetto vocals that deafened the club was straining his patience. He stepped forward. “Listen, Aria—”

“No, Vakarian. _You_ listen,” Aria demanded, driving her finger into his chest. “I’ve told you this before. Your presence here does not bode well for myself, or my people. When you’re around, I tend to lose credits. However, I am not interested in you at the moment.” Aria slinked by him, turning her attention towards Shepard. “I’m far more intrigued by the Commander. You’re looking far better than the last time you graced my station.”

Shepard crossed her arms, unamused. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

Garrus warily watched as Aria trailed a fingertip across the edge of Shepard’s armored collar. “No, I suppose you don’t,” she said slyly.

Shepard swatted Aria’s hand away. “I’ve never been here before in my life.”

The asari threw her head back laughing. “A funny choice of words. You were less than…” Aria’s eyes swept over Shepard in a noticeably hungry way. “Well, the rumor was that you were such a mess, no one could even tell if you were a man or a woman. I see that has been very much… _alleviated_.”

Aria turned away, a coquettish sway to her hips.

“Where is your little asari at?” Aria asked, as she settled down on the leather couch. A server approached, handing her a glass. Aria didn’t extend the offer of anything to them. “The one that was so badly looking for you?”

 _Liara_. 

“Did those things get her first?” she asked, words dripping with false sincerity. 

“ _Things_?” Shepard echoed. 

Aria took a sip from her drink. “The Collectors, of course,” she replied after a moment.

“ _What_?” Garrus exclaimed. What had Liara been doing, getting wrapped up with the likes of those things?

“Now,” Aria continued, ignoring his outburst. It was clear that she was enjoying her upper hand. “Commander. If you’re here, then I have reason to believe that the Collectors aren’t far behind. They were pursuing your body relentlessly.”

What else was Liara hiding? His courtesy call to her was getting less cordial by the minute.

Shepard looked disgusted. “Pursuing my body? What did they want with my _corpse_?"

Aria shrugged, and then a devious smile curled her lips. “You know, I’m in a rather generous mood right now, and I think I have some information on this subject that you might be interested in…”

Nothing was free on Omega, and the thought of owing anything to Aria T’Loak didn’t send a thrill through Garrus. “At what price?” he asked.

“Maybe _nothing_ , maybe _something_ ,” Aria replied offhandedly. “How badly do you want it?”

He reluctantly took the bait. “I’m listening.”

Aria tipped her head back, glaring lights catching the curve of her crest. “Around two years ago, a few weeks after the Citadel was attacked, a group of Collectors arrived on my station. The Blue Suns rounded up a bunch of humans for them to purchase. I interrupted the transaction.”

"How _gracious_ of you," Shepard said sarcastically.

“I killed them all,” Aria replied indifferently. “The Collectors, the humans and most of the Blue Suns. But, after… _interviewing_ one of the surviving mercs, I found something noteworthy from a seized datapad.” She paused, if nothing else for the sake of dramatics. “It seemed, the Collectors weren’t just gathering up a few humans from Omega, they also possessed a rather detailed report on the populations of Horizon, Freedom’s Progress, Eden Prime, Terra Nova, and Earth.”

“Earth…” Shepard muttered, looking up at Garrus.

“Just the human populations,” Aria reiterated. “Nothing else.”

“You’ve known about this for two years?” Garrus pressed angrily. “Don’t you think giving this info to the Council or Alliance might’ve been helpful?” His volume grew louder with each passing word. _A few weeks after the Citadel was attacked_ matched the timeline leading up to the Normandy’s destruction.

Fury contorted Aria’s cold face. “Fuck. The. Council.” she spat out, before pushing herself off the couch, “And fuck you too—" And so started another round of ranting, raving, and profanity.

Out of the corner of his eye, Garrus caught the flashing of Shepard’s omni-tool activating. Her eyes darted to it, curious. A casual glance at the notification gave way to an obvious expression of surprise. She dropped her arm, stepping into Aria’s view.

"Alright, Aria. Thanks for the intel, but we’re getting out of here,” Shepard announced, hooking her arm through the bend of Garrus’ elbow. She urgently started to pull him away from the luminous terrace.

Aria stopped mid-sentence, stunned that Shepard interrupted her curse-laden harangue. She experienced a momentary lapse of composure, before hollering after them, “Don’t cross me again! And remember, you _owe_ me!”

“Duly noted!” Shepard yelled back, but her voice was drowned out by percussive beats.

She dragged Garrus through the club and didn’t release his arm until they were back outside. "What's going on, Shepard?"

“I just received a distress call,” she quickly explained.

He had encrypted her omni-tool to run anonymously. “From _who_?” 

“I don’t know, it’s mostly binary strings, but Garrus _look_.” She held up the omni-tool, revealing a message full of numerical coding, but buried within the sequences of ones and zeros, were a set of celestial coordinates that stood out. Garrus instantly recognized them, even as Shepard said, “These coordinates are for Noveria.”

End Chapter Six


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Seven
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: Thanks flux_eterna for beta reading!
> 
> +++

Despite how eager Garrus was to leave Omega, recklessly rushing towards danger wasn’t the most viable solution. They needed a plan.

"Shepard, maybe this isn’t an SOS, but something else entirely,” Garrus commented, reviewing the data with a scrutinizing eye. “It’s just Noveria’s coordinates, after all,” he continued. “It could be a lot of other things— like a trap. Let’s approach with discretion.”

“I agree. It’s not like we can go into Port Hanshan with guns blazing anyway.” Shepard stood up from her task of organizing the provisions purchased from Nik. They’d picked up a few more munitions before returning to his apartment. “We won’t know until we get there. But I’m done waiting around. It’s time to move,” Shepard said, confident in her resolution. “Omega has nothing else to offer, and Aria’s made it clear we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

Garrus bristled at the mention of Aria. "How the _hell_ did T’Loak know that humans were being targeted by the Collectors, but we were left in the dark?” he said. “It’s absurd!”

Shepard reached up, catching his arm. He’d been pacing since returning to gather Shepard’s cache of supplies. "Nothing came through any channels?” she asked. “The Spectres have some of the best intel in the galaxy at their disposal.”

Garrus shook his head. "No.”

“Listen,” Shepard said. “We both know that Spectres have no jurisdiction in Terminus Systems. Don’t blame yourself.” Her thumb traced a small circle on his forearm in an attempt to placate his agitation. 

It worked, just a little. Still, he added, “Even so, you'd think someone would have caught wind. You'd think someone other than Aria would’ve known…"

The circular motion of her digit stopped. “Maybe someone did know, and just didn’t care".

“It’s not just that, Shepard,” he began, before gently—regrettably— pulling away from her grasp to sit on the bed. “…The Normandy was destroyed by an unknown vessel about four weeks after Sovereign attacked the Citadel. I’ve been trying to pursue that assailant since I learned what happened.” 

He paused as Shepard joined him, the mattress shifting under the combined weight of their gear. “And then, the Collectors just happen to arrive on Omega around the same time to purchase a large number of humans. We know that husks are just humans that have been… _repurposed_ by geth tech. Then, Aria finds a datapad with the populations of not only human-centric territories, but your homeworld, too…”

Shepard’s eyes darkened. “It’s like they’re planning to harvest us… to build an army, or…” Garrus watched her fingers curl next to his own. “Was the black box from the Normandy salvaged?” she asked, trying to make relevant, though distant connections to her own murder.

“Only fragments of the interior cameras. But I’m skeptical,” he said. “The most advanced ship to date— a co-developed Alliance and Turian Hierarchy project that cost millions of credits. And you’re telling me the exterior feeds didn’t survive? Bullshit. It’s like all the evidence just… disappeared…” 

His tore his gaze away from her hand— so diminutive to pump a shotgun the way she did— meeting her eyes instead. She was craning her neck to look up at him, because even from this angle Garrus towered over her. Shepard was a living ghost in his view; she was once only a memory he held in his mind. He could physically hold her now, if she allowed it. And Garrus wanted too, if only to affirm that she was real and not some ethereal anomaly haunting him. Before he could stop himself, his fingers gingerly caught the loose strands of hair surrounding her face. It slid through his digits like silk. There was no recoil from her. Shepard just curiously watched him. 

“It’s like someone wanted to _erase_ you, Shepard,” he continued in a low drone. His sub-harmonics jittered from a mix of anger, longing, and possessiveness.

She hadn’t moved— was still letting him toy with the ends of her hair. Shepard shuffled closer to him, coyly changing the subject. “… do you remember that time on deck two… when we were grounded?”

He answered immediately. “Of course.”

“You do?” The surprise in her voice hurt. 

“You’re not forgettable, Shepard,” he assured her, giving voice to long-held truth. 

“It must seem like such a long time ago for you.” Shepard’s pink tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip. When she next spoke, it was in a distanced, dreamy manner. “It was so quiet... just the two of us.”

He let her tresses fall away. When Garrus tenderly cupped her cheek, he felt the coaxing whisper of arousal tugging at his plates. He fixated on how his hand wholly enveloped the side of her face. “… a perfect calm before the storm.” Her mouth moved against the side of his palm as she spoke. Shepard turned her face into his hand, gazing up at him between his own Kevlar-covered fingers. 

His omni-tool blared an alert, casting Shepard’s visage in a warm glow. Pulling away from her was jarringly difficult. He stood, checking the message. "It’s Liara. I guess she got impatient for an update on you.” He peered over at Shepard, who was rising off the bed. Even for a human, Shepard was expressive. Garrus rarely needed to guess her moods before she died, and her two-year absence hadn’t dulled his abilities to read her. Currently, Shepard was downright disgruntled.

She rummaged through, and then shut the crate harder than necessary. “Joker’s not the only one who has bad timing…” she muttered, locking the lid in place. Garrus only gave a quiet, dour chuckle in response. If she were a turian, Shepard would’ve been able to pick up on the frustrated thrumming in his second larynx. 

If she were a turian, the emotional tie Garrus held for her would’ve felt less taboo. There was a lot he learned to process when it came to Shepard but wading through the desirous waves she caused in him always left him feeling confused and breathless. It did then and was doing so now. He did not have a fetish for humans. And, Garrus knew that he didn’t fetishize Shepard. 

He just wanted to be closer to her— maddeningly so.

Without thinking, Garrus took the single step to close the distance between them but faltered in Shepard’s personal space—didn’t know what he intended to do in it, anyway. He masked his vacillation by scooping the container out of her grasp, to sling it over his shoulder by the handle, all while Shepard gave an amusingly irritated huff. 

She followed him out, pausing in front of the automated door. “It’s a shame we’re leaving, I liked this place,” commented Shepard, inputting in his alarm codes that secured the apartment. “It’s cozy. Needs a bigger bed, though.” 

He heard the smile in her voice, and a vision of Shepard’s nude torso gently rising and falling with breath manifested before Garrus could banish the thought away. “…it really does,” he agreed. 

+++

Once they were drifting away from the smoggy, corroded dockyard of Omega, Garrus rang up Liara via vid com.

“I can’t talk long,” Liara brusquely greeted. “I just wanted to check in—”

“Liara, we have a lot to discuss,” Garrus began, with a snort of derision. “Like your involvement with Aria T’Loak, Omega, and the Collectors.”

“Garrus,” Liara curtly replied. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

He hunched over the console. “That’s the problem.”

Shepard entered the small communication room and Liara’s sapphire eyes lit up as they fell on her. “Oh, Goddess…” she breathed. “Shepard.”

Shepard smiled, stating warmly, “Heard you were the one that sent Garrus on quite the pick-up run.” 

Liara’s cheeks flushed violet, making her freckles stand out more so than usual. Suddenly coy, she gazed at Shepard through dark lashes. “…are you feeling alright?” Liara asked softly.

Her tone awkwardly resembled that of pillow talk.

“Yeah,” Shepard said. She shifted, her shoulder brushing up against Garrus’ arm as she tried to share the cramped space in front of the monitor with him. “We’re heading to Noveria,” Shepard informed her, oblivious to how Liara stared at the contact point between them. Garrus didn’t miss it.

She pursed her blue lips, before verbal caresses giving away to something much tenser. “…Why?” .

“Got hit with a distress call over my omni-tool,” she said.

Liara leaned back, folding her arms. “That clearly sounds like a trap, Shepard.”

Well, that was one thing he could agree with Liara on.

“I already said that,” Garrus interjected. “She won’t listen.”

“Of course she won’t.” Liara narrowed her eyes.

Shepard looked up to Garrus, then back to Liara on the monitor. “I’m standing right here, guys."

Liara shook her head. “Noveria isn’t my concern. Not really.” She paused, brows furrowed. She suddenly threw a startled glance behind her shoulder. “It’s the fact that you’re flying into Inner Council Space…” she muttered, not turning back to them.

“You okay?” Shepard asked, taking a concerned step forward. Garrus squinted into the darkness behind Liara. There was nothing there.

Liara nodded but didn’t elaborate. “You were probably safer on Omega,” she continued. 

“Doubtful,” Garrus replied. “Pretty sure we’ve been tailed since leaving the Cerberus station.”

Liara spun back in her chair. “By _who_?”

“If I knew that, we’d be having a very different conversation,” Garrus said, sharing her irritable tone. “An asari commando, maybe.”

“A commando who just happened to know about a top-secret space station run by a terrorist group performing medical experiments…?” Liara said, skeptically raising an eyebrow.

“Well, when you put it like that…” Shepard sighed, running a hand through her hair. Garrus watched the shiny strands he touched earlier pass through her fingers. It reminded him of one of the reasons he was so agitated with Liara right now. 

“Promise me when you’re done with your errand that you’ll contact me,” Liara said, inching forward. “You’re right Garrus, we do have a lot to talk about. But, we need to do it face to face, somewhere private.” She lowered her voice, “Already, I feel as if I’ve been on this channel too long.”

Garrus recalled her frightened face on Illium; her paranoia. A pang of guilt resonated through him for his impatience with her. He had no doubt that her need for secrecy was genuine, and for a reason so critical that Liara didn’t feel comfortable speaking candidly to them now. Gently, he tried to reassure her, “This is a secure channel,” hoping to ease some of the tension on her round face. 

“ _Nothing_ is secure,” Liara replied and disconnected.

+++

Both a physical and literal chill cut Garrus to the bone as they docked at Port Hanshan. Through soaring hanger bay windows, Garrus could see imposing snow-festooned mountains spearing the sky. With its high altitudes and permanently frozen mountain ranges, Noveria was unforgiving and brutal. And, not just because of its polar exterior. Terribly cruel things happened deep within the carved-out labs bunkered under ice and rock.

During the jump from the Terminus Systems, Shepard superimposed the coordinates of the SOS over a map of Noveria; the frequency was coming from within one of those labs.

Captain Maeko Matsuo greeted them as they entered the security checkpoint, just as she did the first time they arrived on Noveria. Levelheaded, honest and impartial, Matsuo was the perfect choice to head the ERCS security forces on this dismal, immoral world. Her almond eyes widened in recognition as they approached. “Shepard-san. When we received word that a Spectre vessel was incoming, I didn’t believe it would be the same agent,” she stated.

“It’s technically not,” Shepard replied.

Matsuo turned to Garrus. “Wonderful. So, there are two of you here now,” she said deadpan, massaging her right temple. “I won’t ask you to disarm. You’ve been given clearance due to your status. But if you would refrain from shooting up the place, that would be great.”

“No promises,” Garrus said, only half-joking. 

“I was hoping that you were here to simply enjoy the resort,” said Matsuo, leading them past the hydraulic entry doors. “I guess that was too much to ask for.” It was instantly warmer in the foyer. The temperature on Noveria was never above freezing, but the Noveria Development Corporation used the thick glacier sheets to their advantage. Melting the vast supply of ice in boiler furnaces underground produced steam and hot-water heating throughout the facilities stationed in the Skadi Mountains. It was clean, dust-free and—most importantly— cost effective. “As you know, Spectres make our investors incredibly nervous. As a courtesy, please go see Qui’in-sama in his office,” the captain continued.

Garrus exchanged a look with Shepard. “Lorik Qui’in?” he asked. “The manager for Synthetic Insights?”

“That is correct,” Matsuo confirmed. “He took over as administrator after the arrest of Bel Anoleis.” 

“Hopefully that means it’ll be easier getting what we need this time,” Shepard said.

“That’s not really for me to say,” the captain replied— neutral as always— before leaving them at the top of the stairway. Port Hanshan was a high-tech building that made persistent use of glass curtain walls, reinforced concrete, and steel. The lobby was no different; it was a functional, open space that combined metal with organic elements to warm the cold atmosphere. Flowing drifts of mixed green ferns in brass planters, bisected by boulders, and artificial rivers provided just enough natural texture to breathe life to the building. The only difference between their latest excursion and the previous one was that there seemed to be more armored guards making rounds. 

Lorik was seated behind an impressive desk, wearing an expensive pressed suit. “I would surmise that, as usual, your goal lays outside this port,” he drawled, attention focused solely on his computer. 

“It is,” Garrus confirmed.

A curt nod from the man, but he said nothing, only continuing to type for an unnecessarily long time. 

Shepard suddenly bared her flat, straight teeth, and slammed her hand down so hard on his desk, the coffee cup in the corner dithered. “Hey! This is important!” she exclaimed. “I’m tired of being screwed around with by every administrator on this frigid hellhole.”

“I’m not _screwing_ with you,” he grimaced, mandibles strained in disgust. “I am arranging the employment of NDC transport for the two of you to make use of.” Shepard relaxed her posture. “Our investors wanted you off this world two years ago, and that was before the incident on Peak 15. They are ready for your… oh, what _is_ that saying… revolve?” he pondered, before refining his statement with certainty, “They’re ready for your heads to revolve now.”

Human idioms, it seemed, were still not Qui’in’s forte.

Shepard powered up her omni-tool with a flick of her wrist, enlarging a topographic holo-map of Noveria. “You see this signal?” The transmission now pinged in steady bursts. “We need to go there.” Shepard punctuated her statement by shoving her arm directly in front of Lorik’s face.

“Ah, yes,” he said tersely. “That lab.” Lorik leaned back away from Shepard. “It hasn’t seen much activity lately, but the rumors are…”

She pulled her arm away. “Who operates it?”

“For the record, I would like to impress upon you the delicate nature of which you are trying to glean,” Lorik informed them, but was met with only hostile silence. Garrus folded his arms impatiently across his chest. “But, it would be remiss of me, if I didn’t acknowledge that I am in your debt,” the administrator admitted, conceding to Garrus’ body language and opposing dual tones. “And, the least I can do is clear a path for you.”

“How kind,” Garrus said caustically.

“And maybe, it’s about time that some of our less… scrupulous investors to pay the musician,” Lorik said darkly.

Shepard propped her hip onto his desk. “ _Piper_ ,” she corrected, articulating every syllable. “Pay the piper.” 

Lorik drummed his fingers against the surface, annoyed. A subtle twitch in his brow plate told Garrus all he needed to know about how Lorik felt about Shepard putting her ass on his desk. “I can’t answer your inquiry, not because I don’t want too— but, because I don’t know,” he stated. “Some of Noveria’s patrons prefer it that way. Everything about it is handled through anonymous transactions and plain-clothes staff.” 

Lorik reached into his coat pocket, then slid a garage pass over to Shepard. “Lab 24. Speak with Lilihierax in the transport depot. And, do look where you are driving, lest you fall into a crevasse,” he said indifferently. “Good day.”

+++

Lilihierax (who still insisted to just be called Li) was waiting for them in the garage. He was wearing an orange, oil-stained mechanic jumpsuit, which clashed garishly with his olive colony markings. Proudly, he stood beside vehicle that would’ve looked military in origin, if not for the glossy paint job, and the NDC corporate logo on the side. “All-terrain, truck front, manual transmission, leather lined comfort,” he gushed as they approached. “Isn’t she beautiful?” He swept gentle eyes over the body of the craft, before turning sternly to them. “We got hit with a blizzard last night, so take it easy up here. This baby’s got traction for days, but don’t go driving her stupid.”

It was a slow, steady ride through the valley. Garrus hadn’t let the vehicle out of second gear since leaving the garage, and Shepard periodically shot miffed little glances in his direction. He’d plucked the keys right out of her palm as Li dropped them into her hand. Out of all the things he missed about Shepard, her driving wasn’t among any of those qualities. 

“You could probably go a little faster,” she said. It was thinly veiled as a suggestion, but Garrus knew better.

“I’m driving on snow and ice, Shepard,” Garrus replied flatly. “Up a mountain.”

“I _could_ do it,” she assured him, eyeballing the steering wheel.

Garrus tightened his grip on the object of her desire. “No,” he said. “You can’t, nor were you ever able too.”

Shepard flopped back into her seat, crossing her arms. Garrus stifled a grin; he swore she was acting almost bratty. Even with the role reversal, this didn’t feel so different than the times that he suffered through Shepard’s driving, miles on end through some uncharted world. There were meaningful connections forged through all that traveling, which fostered curiosity, which lead into their budding friendship. 

The inevitable flash of combat at the end of those long pursuits also helped to facilitate camaraderie. It was shockingly easy to carry on a decent conversation with the right people even stuck behind cover, with bullets whizzing overhead. 

Shepard was one such person.

She took a sip of coffee. They’d stopped by the mezzanine before departing to grab a few essentials: a hot, caffeinated drink being on the top of the list. “…when did Liara become so… _brazen_?”

“Heh. You know she could always hold her own.” It was true. Despite being found suspended in some makeshift containment field, Liara had shown a real knack for field support, even if Garrus was a bit slow to admit it. 

“She was the closest thing we had to a civilian on the Normandy during the pursuit of Saren...” Shepard stated, before trailing off to consider her own statement. 

“That should inspire you, Shepard. When war hits, ordinary people can turn the tides,” said Garrus, feeling strangely optimistic.

“They shouldn’t have to,” she said. “The military should be prepared. The galactic government should be doing something about the Reapers, not sitting around with their thumbs up their asses trying to maintain the status quo.” Shepard shook her head in disbelief. “What is the Council thinking? What will they do when their metaphoric levees break?”

“… I wish I knew.” He’d tried and failed numerous times to understand the Council's motives. The only thing that his conclusions ever lead to were dead ends, or headaches.

“And, when did you become so audacious?” she asked, changing topics so unexpectedly that Garrus almost laughed. 

“Maybe I’ve always been that way, and you weren’t paying close enough attention,” echoing her words from the Caard District with a flick of his mandible. 

Shepard didn’t reply, but he caught a solemn expression from her, as she turned to gaze out the passenger window. There wasn’t much to look at on that side— just the jagged, frozen relief of a mountain. His view was no better. A few meters away, and there was only the drop into the chasm below.

He wasn’t driving the Mako, in all its indestructible glory. If they went over the side, they would experience a horrible way to die. Even if they somehow survived the fall, hypothermia would kill them in less than an hour. Even encased in layers of Kevlar and ceramic, his plates involuntary contracted, trying to retain body heat. It was the biological response of fear embedded in the genes of every turian, put there by a millennium of natural selection. 

He glanced at Shepard. She was turned away, but from her reflection in the window was pensive. Her body bore none of the protection of his species to secure body heat.

Garrus returned his focus to the long road ahead, and subconsciously or not, he drove a little faster.

End Chapter Seven


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Eight
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: THANKS flux_eterna, beta-reader extraordinaire. 
> 
> +++

Lab 24’s main entrance was unmarked, and a layer of frost clung to the steel hydraulic doors. Garrus would’ve risked driving past it, if not for the alert on Shepard’s omni-tool and her exclamation of, “Here!” Maybe it was the freezing, overcast atmosphere, or the fact that it was substandard, but the device had fallen oddly silent since leaving Port Hanshan. 

The vehicle jerked to stop, and Shepard caught herself on the overhanging handle. Her eyes scanned the door. “I’m gonna get that open. Looks big enough for you to drive through.” She tugged on her helmet. “Stay here.”

Garrus pulled the parking break. “Like hell,” he said, reaching for his own headgear. 

“Fine,” Shepard said. “I was just trying to save you the trouble of freezing your ass off.” She opened the door, letting a blast of blustery air through. “I remember how much you hate being cold,” she teased before slamming the door shut. 

“Shepard.” He followed her, trotting over to the entrance. The temperature regulators on his suit fired up, but both of them had only finite amounts time to be exposed to the elements. “Just watch my back while I override the security.” 

She answered by flipping the safety off on the Katana, covering him as he worked. The security measures consisted of multi-layered networks and Garrus set to finding the nodes that allowed access to the door operations. Predictably, finding an exploitable vulnerability in the lab’s cybersecurity took longer than he would’ve liked, but eventually the door opened under his hands.

Shepard drove the truck inside, and once she cleared the door, Garrus sealed it. He watched as the thin sliver of natural light vanish behind cold metal, plunging them into darkness. Shepard’s voice filled the integrated headset in his helmet, “Switching to low-light vision.”

Silently, they traversed the long hallways, and if not for their gear, would’ve had only the dim emergency lights at floor level to guide them. The lab was well maintained, clean, seemingly empty, and just as nondescript as Lorik mentioned. There was nothing to suggest that violence, emergency, or discord was the reason for vacancy. It was as if all the staff had been reassigned on the fly, forcing them to power down the lab to minimal operations for the time being. The more Garrus analyzed the scenario, the more it unnerved him. A dark place within his psyche longed for the visceral shock of finding blood and gore splattered about the walls. At least the abandonment would’ve been obvious, and negated the sense of foreboding that lingered throughout lab. 

Shepard periodically checked the signal, muting the volume before she started their track. She nodded up to him; they were getting close to the source. As they drew nearer, Garrus hoped they were going to find an explanation, and not some kind of body-horror monstrosity that a bunch of mad scientists dreamt up to forgo boredom on a slow work day. Coming to a halt in front a set of sealed doors, they took position on either side. Garrus hit the locking mechanism with the side of his fist, revealing an observation room. Computer terminals glowing with algorithms reflected off a glass wall. There was something behind it, the subject of this particular experiment. 

Shepard approached with caution and pressed her hand against the glass. There was something laying there— something recognizable, familiar and above everything else—dangerous.

“It’s a _geth_ ,” she uttered. “It’s the one transmitting the distress signal...”

_The geth._

Garrus hadn’t even considered how they would fit into this equation, beyond convenient cannon fodder for the Reapers.

He clenched his jaw, leveling his rifle to the possible hostile behind the enclosure. “I told you this was a trap—” but his words were cut short, not by the fact that the geth was rising from the examination table, but because of the armor welded onto its torso and arm. Though scorched and dented, with red and white paint chipped and faded, it was Alliance issued N7 armor. 

“Shepard,” Garrus said carefully, watching the geth’s single optic lens flicker to full brilliance. Reaching for a series of cables connected to a port in its neck, the geth yanked them out with a curiously _annoyed_ tug. How could a machine be bothered by anything? It was in a synthetic’s very design to be tools, and tools felt nothing. “How much you wanna bet that’s your old armor?” And maybe he was jumping to conclusions, but Garrus was doubtful. Standard investigative techniques had taught him that, more often than not, the most logical conclusion was also the most likely. 

She didn’t respond, solely focused on the machine. It approached her, also pressing a hand to the glass. “Shepard-Commander.” Its voice was synthesized, masculine, and should’ve been impossible. Geth only communicated with each other, and then only via mechanical clicks. An omni-tool interface appeared on its wrist, synching with Shepard’s own, halting the tracking program that flashed obnoxiously now that the subject of their search was found. 

A tense moment of silence, before Shepard tentatively asked, “You can speak?”

Panels over its lens raised, then lowered in a semblance of expression. “Yes,” the geth stated. 

Her eyes narrowed. “And, you know who I am?” 

“All geth know you,” it replied. 

“Because you want to kill me,” Shepard reasoned with a tightlipped smile. 

It jerked its head to the side, “No. We know of your pursuit. The Old Machines,” it paused, as if processing its own statement before clarifying, “The ones you call Reapers.” Shepard lowered her gun, just a fraction. It continued to elaborate, as if offering a bargain. “We know of their trajectory and impending arrival.” 

“Of course, you do!” Garrus exclaimed. “The geth are allied with the Reapers!” He’d been content to let Shepard lead this strange interaction, if only so he could keep his barrel pointed at the geth’s head without distraction, but there was something softening in Shepard expression that was making him nervous. She was actively listening to what it was saying, reading between the lines of its words, and already formulating a plan to best use the resources presented to her. 

“We are geth,” it motioned to its battered platform, “And we are not aiding them.”

She was going to let the damn thing out, and Garrus knew that he had limited time to persuade her otherwise.

He tilted his head towards her but kept his eyes and gun targeted on the geth. “It’s bullshitting you, Shepard.” The apprehensive feeling in his chest intensified when she didn’t answer.

“We oppose the Old Machines,” it insisted. “We propose a mutually beneficial partnership with Shepard-Commander.”

“No!” Garrus shouted, at the precise moment Shepard asked, “Why?” 

The panels rose again, before the geth answered. “You killed one of them.”

Her shoulders relaxed, the shotgun now pointed towards the floor. “You want them dead, too?”

It dropped its hand away from the glass, “We desire a future free of their influence.” If Garrus would have been in a kinder mood, he may have sympathized with the universal truth of the statement, especially coming from a synthetic, who was created only to serve. 

Shepard holstered her weapon. “That’s something we can all agree on,” she said. “So, what do we call you?”

“It’s not coming aboard!” If Garrus needed to be the voice of reason against the irrational decision that was about to transpire then so be it. “And, machines— _things_ — don’t have names!”

Finally, she turned her attention back to him, but it was clear that Shepard already had disregarded all his warnings. “We’re short enough on allies. I am not turning help away.” She looked back at the geth, before adding, “Regardless of the package that it comes in.”

“Shepard, _think_ ,” he spat, and his abrasiveness was rewarded with an absolutely scornful look from her. It wasn’t enough of a deterrent to silence him. “Think of how many we killed, and for good reason.” If Shepard had been absent Garrus was certain he would’ve already eliminated the geth and been on his way. It dawned on him that he was standing by awaiting Shepard’s order as if he was still under her command. “The geth want us dead, and why should this one be any different? It’s _not_.”

“You killed the Heretics, Garrus Vakarian,” it said, personally addressing him for the first time. 

Garrus didn’t take the bait, but knew that whatever the Heretics were, he’d be looking into as soon as possible. Until than he was going to ignore the geth’s attempts to subvert his rationale. “It’s awfully strange that it was able to reach out to you through an unregistered omni-tool,” Garrus urgently continued, playing a different angle.

“Your perceived security was lacking,” the machine said. Garrus shot a glare in its direction that would have stopped an organic cold. It gave no reaction and that alone made him hate it a little more. 

“We can argue about this all day, but this isn’t the time or place.” Shepard took a step back. She reached to him, her hand at his elbow. “Now, move. I’m breaking the glass.”

He shook her grip away with a jerk of his arm and didn’t budge. “There could a bomb planted inside, or—!”

“Garrus, please!” She emphasized her plea by whipping her hand towards the glass. “There’s a giant hole in his chest!”

Shepard wasn’t going to be swayed, especially not in such a frustrated state of mind. He had no authority over her, just as she no longer commanded him, and if one of them didn’t yield there would be no end to their quarrelling. 

He stood down begrudgingly; they were wasting too much time. “The consequences belong to you, Shepard.” It was meant to come off as warning, but he knew it was a lie. If any penalties were to be had, Garrus knew he would share in them too. 

She rolled her eyes. “Story of my life.” She reared her fist back, intending to bust the glass with a biotic blow, but the motion fell short when a feminine voice drawled, “Well, I have to admit this is convenient,” directly behind them. 

Garrus recognized the apathetic human voice, even as he fluidly spun, raising his gun once more. Beside him Shepard followed suit, but they were already at a disadvantage, foolishly caught unaware by their bickering. 

Amateur move, Garrus bitterly thought.

Although her visage was no longer displayed on a damaged, blood splattered monitor, Garrus knew the woman that stood before them. It was Miranda Lawson, one and same, from the vid logs on the station. She was flanked by two heavily armored guards, and likely there were more just beyond their sight. Flakes of snow clung to her long, dark hair and a thick parka was tossed over her Cerberus uniform. Miranda hardly seemed agitated by their presence but was still aiming a semi-automatic pistol right at them.

“Lower your weapons,” she ordered in an indifferent voice. “You both know you’re not in a tactically sound position. Let’s not waste time on a scuffle.”

Neither of them complied, despite how correct Lawson was. “Who are you?” Shepard asked, voice firm and low. She hadn’t reviewed any of the vids, only scanned through the recovered data for key dates, names and locations. Cornered, Shepard was at her most dangerous, as was he. But, this wasn’t some mediocre mercenary gang on Omega that stood against them now. They were outgunned, lacked cover and (if Shepard had anything to say about it) needed to be concerned with the extraction of a prisoner.

“Commander,” she coaxed. “My name is Miranda Lawson. I headed Project Lazarus, as I’m sure you read from the files you took from the research station. If not, I’m sure the turian beside you probably still has the all that information saved to his omni-tool.” Even without sub-vocals, Garrus could hear the animosity in her tone.

“Of course, this would be a Cerberus lab…” Shepard scoffed softly. “Goddamnit.”

Lawson’s eyes glanced over Shepard’s shoulder, ignoring her comment. “Interesting,” she said. “The geth is communicating with you. We captured it a few weeks after your death at the Normandy’s crash site. It’s been in a state of inactivity ever since.” Her eyebrows twitched in annoyance. “Or, so we thought.” 

“Cut the small talk,” Shepard demanded, because even at a disadvantage she was going to try to gain control of the situation. “Or—”

“Or, what?” Lawson asked, cutting Shepard’s threat short. “You’re the ones trespassing, attempting to steal our property.”

A mechanical whirl from behind. “This platform does not belong to you.”

Lawson gave no response to the geth. “As you’ve probably saw from the logs, Cerberus spent a lot time, money, and effort bringing you back, Shepard. Surely, you can spare us a few moments, since you're already so kindly here.” Before Shepard had the opportunity to answer, Lawson slyly added, “We can provide you with _everything_ you need to win this war.”

“With plenty of strings attached, too,” Shepard replied, unconvinced. “You must think I’m some sort of gun for hire, working for whoever throws credits or resources my way.”

“On the contrary, Commander. We know you have high standards.” Lawson smirked; it was a cold, calculating attempt at amenity. “As do we.”

“You’re a terrorist organization, nothing more,” Shepard said, her own voice just as menacing as Lawson’s smile.

“Even your asari knew the benefits of working with us,” she replied. “And no doubt, you’ll have the same epiphany.” 

Garrus jeered at the presumptuous boast, finally speaking up. “Benefits? Like what, having to reach out to Liara—an alien— once your work was discovered.” He hoped his words stung. How much pride did Cerberus have to put aside for that particular decision? 

Lawson’s lip curled. “You should be grateful I did. Otherwise, Shepard would be dead. That alone should tell you just how dire the state of the galaxy is right now.” She finally relaxed her aim, pointing the gun upward. Shepard and Garrus did not follow her example, nor did the Cerberus entourage. “But, you just keep having your little moral conundrum; good versus evil, right versus wrong, us versus them.” Her words were bitter, and she momentarily looked exhausted, but it quickly passed, and Lawson was perfectly composed when she next spoke. “In the end, it only matters who gets out alive. Cerberus, and by proxy all of humankind, will succeed and I would think you would want to aid in that, not hinder it Commander.”

Shepard tightened the grip on her gun. “Your methods are unacceptable.” 

A silent standoff was occurring between the two women, and Garrus broke it by asking, “Do you know who attacked your facility?”

Lawson’s eye flickered back over to him. “No, but it’s being… looked into.” Her words were measured, but Garrus detected the barely contained rage just under the surface.

“You’ve been following us.” He further delved. Garrus didn’t present it as a question, even knowing how unlikely it was, but Lawson’s admittance of contacting help outside of her own species opened the possibly that the asari at the facility was another such operative. 

“Following you?” Lawson echoed, a curious tilt to her head. “No. We arrived here to move our assets. As I said, this was a happy accident.”

“We’re not going with you." Shepard declared. "And, I'll never work for you.”

A stalemate finally had been reached, and whatever came out of Lawson’s mouth next would determine their course of action and means of exit. During their exchange, Garrus had been weighing tactics. Outnumbered, there were limited strategies to take advantage of. The element of surprise delivered via frag grenade could at least give them precious seconds of confusion to fire a few well-placed shots and free the geth, whom Garrus knew could hold a rifle, but that also meant that it would be armed…

Lawson stepped back, and that seemed to be the cue for her armed guards to withdraw. “That’s fine, Commander. Cerberus is patient.” She waved her hand, dismissing the soldiers that surrounded her. Garrus looked to Shepard, and there was doubt in her eyes as she gazed back at him; _it shouldn’t be this easy_. “I’ll even let you keep the geth. As a show of good will,” she said diplomatically. “And, I’ll even give you the codes, so you don’t have to break the glass.”

Shepard started backing up to the computer terminal directly behind her but kept facing forward. “In case you were forgetting, I was planning to take him whether you liked it or not,” she replied, a defiant glimmer in her eyes. Garrus stepped in front of Shepard, as she turned her back and started working. Seconds later, a green light signaled a door release inside the observation chamber and Shepard went to meet the geth on the other side. Garrus watched the machine with a critical eye, ready to put it down as soon as it showed any hint of aggression. No such sign came. If anything, the geth kept a polite distance from Shepard, though it wouldn’t stop staring at her. 

Garrus ushered them both in front of him, starting the walk back to the entrance. Lawson lingered just behind him, and he knew that she wasn’t just showing them out. His assumption proved correct when Shepard busied herself with the vehicle, no longer within earshot. 

“Spectre.”

And he knew exactly what she was going to say, even before it came out of her mouth. “You need to convince—"

“What makes you think I’d try to persuade Shepard to do anything she didn’t want?”

“It’s not about want. You think I _want_ to talk to the likes of you?” She tossed back her hair, beads of water from melted snow spattering through the air. A few drops hit the front of his hardsuit. “It’s about need. You’re going to need us, just like Cerberus needs Shepard.” Garrus wiped the water away from his chest, not wanting anything associated with Miranda Lawson to linger on his person. If she noticed, she didn’t care enough to mention it. He started walking away, and that should’ve ended the conversation. She followed him, “There are things in motion that cannot be stopped,” Lawson continued cryptically.

Garrus halted his strides, turning towards the Cerberus operative. “Is this the part where you’re going to try to extort me? Information in exchange for…?” he trailed off, annoyed. “Because, I really don’t have time for it.”

She placed her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I wish it were so simple. Coercion is so much easier than negotiating.”

And although he agreed, Garrus said nothing to encourage her philosophy. 

“The existence of Cerberus is no secret. We have our own intelligence and military forces. We want for nothing, and information is our specialty,” she explained, before sighing, “And, we just got our asses handed to us.” 

Her candid statement surprised him. “Why are You’re telling me this?”

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Believe me, I’m not trying to strike an alliance with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Lawson didn’t hide the disgust in her voice or expression. Begrudgingly, he respected her for it. “For the record, it wasn’t Cerberus that was being targeted in that assault. It was Shepard. So, I’ll just let you think about that, and then you can get back to me when you’re ready to play ball.”

Miranda turned, finally leaving. Her strut was as arrogant as the rest of her disposition.

Shooting in her the back flashed through his mind, but he stayed his hand. Instinct told him to, and maybe something more abstract, like intuition. As he processed her calculated words, they struck a chord with him. From what he gathered, Miranda was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of those qualities and she knew far more then she was letting on.

He turned, and his heart sank because Shepard was planted firmly in the driver’s seat. “What did Lawson want?” she asked as soon as he opened the passenger side door. The annoyance radiating off her was unmistakable— she wasn’t used to being left out of the loop.

Garrus shook his head. “Everything, and nothing,” he dismissed quietly. 

She didn’t press him, only turned the key, a smooth rumble filling the cabin. “Cerberus let us walk,” she mused.

“No.” Garrus shook his head in disagreement. “You heard Miranda— ‘property,’ ‘money,’ ‘assets,’ he curtly listed. “You’re a weapon to them Shepard, an expensive object to be used. They’re not going to break one of their toys.” He hated the way it sounded coming from his mouth and he clenched his jaw in anger—damn Cerberus and their schemes. 

And yet, there sat Shepard next to him, the product of their insidious undertakings. 

As if picking up on his thoughts, Shepard muttered, “Well, not yet anyway…” And, he knew she was right. A twisted thing in him almost relished the thought—woe to Cerberus when they decided to discard her, because he wouldn’t spare any of them his wrath. 

“Speaking of _breaking_ ,” Shepard suddenly said, addressing the geth that sat behind them. “Why didn’t you just break yourself out? That was an awful lot of trouble you just put us through.”

For a second, Garrus almost forgot that their new burden was there, so unnaturally quiet as it was. Her statement to it only drove the point home that they were playing with fire. Geth were perfect ambushers and they had one tucked right between them. He dared not even think of it was an ally, and wished that Shepard would stop giving it a gender pronoun. To give sentient characteristics to a machine was a dangerous game, and perhaps humanity hadn’t been a part of the interstellar community long enough to be raised with those notions.

“Functionality has been limited to scanning comm-buoys and data decryption,” it answered. 

“What if they’ve tried to remove your memory core?” she asked. “I remember a quarian friend of mine explaining that geth parts were in high demand with certain parties.”

Oh, Tali— if that girl where here she’d be having a shit fit right about now.

“The Creator you speak of is correct.” There was no resentfulness in the confirmation, only plain acknowledgment. “If any attempts were made to deactivate or disassemble this unit, we would have been forced to defend.” It’s choice of vocabulary gave him pause— _defend_. 

Shepard reached for her coffee cup, shook it and then sadly putting it back in the stand; it was empty. “And, what were you looking for in all that data?”

“Information.” It was a hesitant reply.

Her fingertips drummed against the steering wheel. “About?”

Another pause, and then it answered shyly, “…You.” 

The admission was far too profound— _uncomfortable_ — for Garrus’ liking. “Shepard, it’s going to be tough getting through Port Hanshan with an active geth, we need to figure out another way back to the ship.” Somehow, he was even more edger to leave Noveria than the first time they’d come to the frozen planet.

Shepard shrugged. Her method was equal parts predetermined planning, instinctual drive, and pure luck. “I bet there’s a maintenance hallway in the garage that connects to the docks that we could take. If not,” a mischievous smile appeared, “maybe we’ll just have to put him in a crate.”

“This unit is not cargo.”

One mandible fanned into a grin. 

Shepard had been kidding. 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” 

He was not.

End Chapter Eight


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Nine
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: 
> 
> A. Although I knew this chapter was going to happen since first writing the outline for this story, it still proved to be difficult, and emotionally taxing. (Hence the hiatus.) As a person who is sensitive to any non-consensual elements, I feel it’s only right to give a fair warning that there is violence in this chapter that can easily be interpreted as such. I don’t believe in writing trauma for its own sake alone, and violence in any story should serve to drive the plot forward. And, I feel a good rule of thumb when writing is only write the story you would want to read, that way you know your limits, and what you can stomach when it comes to difficult, uncomfortable topics.
> 
> B. Additional notes at the bottom.
> 
> +++

The ride back to Port Hanshan was mostly uneventful, save for the fact that Shepard’s piss poor driving was accentuated not only by the frozen environment, but also by the fact they’d lost the gray, overcast light of day. They must’ve been in the lab much longer than Garrus realized for night to have fallen. It was still snowing, the fat flakes reflecting in the headlights of their vehicle, and off the guide lights placed along the edge of the road. In the distance, the port glowed bright against the dark sky. But, there was little else to navigate them. It was a moonless night. 

He glanced at the wing mirror for a third time since leaving the lab. He absolutely did not trust Cerberus to allow them to leave their property without so much as a single bullet being fired. But, just like the last two times he checked, there was nothing in the mirror but the bleak tundra. Despite himself, his eyes drifted to the edge of the steep mountain drop that was once again on his side of the truck. The forbidding nature of the chasm was only magnified by the onset of dusk. The approach to the docking bay doors was a sweet relief. 

Much to Garrus’ disappointment, there was no need to put the geth into a crate, or even hide it away. The garage was empty. Li was absent from his post, however there was a datapad with instructions to ‘just leaves the keys in the transmission’ of his beloved vehicle sitting on a toolbox. 

In the back corner of the garage, there was indeed an entrance that lead to a service corridor. For a moment, Shepard scanned the map on the wall, before asking, “Garrus, would you circle around to the lobby, while we,” she jerked a thumb to the geth, “take the backway to the hanger?”

“I don’t think we need to split up,” Garrus said, skeptically eyeballing the machine behind Shepard. It was already working on the locking mechanism of the utility door with its omni-tool. 

“I agree,” said Shepard. She was tracing a finger across the map on the wall, memorizing the pathway that she would need to take. “But, it might rouse suspicion if at least one of us isn’t present and accounted for out there. The powers that be may want us gone, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching us. Besides, you’ll get to the ship first by taking the more direct route and can prime it for take-off. I want off this rock.”

He couldn’t deny Shepard’s logic, but as Garrus watched her leave with the geth into the bowels of the port, he suppressed the feeling of unease. 

They’d not been apart since Garrus found her lying semi-comatose on an operating table, and had it really only been days since she reappeared in his life? It felt as if the last two years were simply a dark, formless dream— a stagnant limbo that he wadded through, waist deep in violence and dissociation. Even with their recent confrontations and personality clashes, he’d felt whole again. Butting heads with Shepard seemed trivial, if it meant they could be together. 

Together— a simple word, but when a flutter rolled through his gut, it became difficult to define what it really meant in the context of the two of them, especially now. The emotional connection that was sparked two years ago was becoming harder to ignore by the day. Before they got swept up in the next leg of their journey, Garrus resolved to sit Shepard down, and at least try to make some sense of it all.

Liara owned Shepard’s old dog tags, kept them in a spot of reverence on her desk. Some geth grafted a piece of Shepard’s armor on its platform for a sloppy field repair. Garrus resented them both. The only memento he’d carried around for the last two years were memories. He would have killed for something more tangible. 

It would’ve been foolish to see her rebirth as anything other than an opportunity to have just that. 

Already they were walking away, but Garrus overheard Shepard say to the geth, “… as soon as we get to the ship, I want you to tell me everything you know about the Reapers.”

“Acknowledged,” the machine replied. Garrus’ eyes lingered on the impact shot that went straight through its body; it was the sort of injury that would have kill any organic being. The corridor’s amber hallway lighting shined eerily through the jagged hole.

“Just be careful, Shepard,” Garrus called-out. Shepard responded with a low wave of her hand, right before he closed the door behind their departure. 

Garrus wasted no time returning to the hanger. He’d been ready to leave Noveria before they even got there. But, as he entered the frigate, Garrus instinctively knew something was off about the atmosphere. The gentle _hum_ of the stand-by sequence was missing. Walking directly to the helm, he took note of the response times of the automated lights, and doors. It was subtle, but Garrus could detect that the mechanisms were behaving sluggish, like they weren’t getting fed enough power. He ran a diagnostic on his omni-tool that confirmed what he already knew; onboard maintenance systems were down. Without the secure connections provided between ground systems and the spacecraft avionics, lift off would be impossible. But, that wasn’t what concerned him the most; Garrus could get those back online with a little work. Perhaps it was a testament to how much time he’d spent alone on the craft, but he knew when there was another person onboard besides him, and Shepard’s approximate ETA was around seven minutes.

The surveillance feeds were also conspicuously full of static. 

Garrus drew his rifle, slowing his body to reduce the sound of his movements. The intruder probably already knew of Garrus’ presence, but that didn’t mean he was going to make an ambush any easier. Hugging the walls, Garrus crouched low before accessing the cockpit door. 

As expected it was dark, but not dark enough to hide the humanoid outline standing at the instrument panel. Leveling his sights to the figure, Garrus commanded in a low, firm voice, “Raise your hands and step back.”

When there was no response, his finger drifted inside the trigger guard. 

The silhouette straightened their back, and feminine voice that was familiar enough to prevent him from pulling the trigger said, “You’re a hard man to get ahold of.”

Turning to face him, an asari slinked out of the shadows. What small light filled the cockpit danced along the bend of her crest as she stepped forward. “Long time no see, Vakarian.” Armored fingertips walked along the surface of the flight consol. Garrus instantly recognized her, though he’d not laid eyes upon the intruder since shortly entering the Spectre program. 

Tela Vasir had been a part of Special Tactics and Reconnaissance long before Garrus was born. She brandished her authority like a sharp, unyielding blade. Already taller than most asari, her demeanor commanding far more space than seemed possible. She was universally attractive in the way most of her species were, even if Garrus had never regarded the asari in a sexually explicit fashion. Fuchsia markings fanned out across her face, warming the indigo of her skin, but not even the symmetrical spatter of pink could brighten her dark eyes. She never seemed to walk as much as swagger and prowl. Everything that Vasir did was deliberate, assertive, and arrogant. 

And, although her ego had been stroked many times by the Council, it wasn’t entirely undeserved. 

Tela Vasir was _very_ good at her job. 

So good in fact, that when the Council assigned Vasir as his mentor, it _should_ have felt like an honor. 

Seeing her abroad the ship, _should_ have felt like a stroke of luck.

It _should_ have eased some of the uncertainty that was becoming a fixate in his life. 

But, it didn’t. 

Because, everything about Vasir left Garrus feeling weary and suspicious. It always had, and seemed, always would. Two years ago, he pondered if he was simply intimidated by the asari Spectre; she was a formidable, capable agent. But, Garrus was used to such women. Shepard embodied the same characteristics and then some, but she never put Garrus on edge in the ways Vasir did. 

Shepard inspired him to be better. 

Vasir made his skin crawl, because in his gut, Garrus knew something was simply off about the asari matron. Even then, Garrus wondered if she, like Saren Arterius, was just another example of a cautionary tale. Could carrying out the pressure and responsibilities of the clandestine operations of the Council really leave their agents psyches intact? We’re they all doomed to eventually break, or develop a twisted morality code?

He’d distanced himself from her form of tutelage at the first available opportunity. 

Vasir firmly crossed her arms over her chest, glancing at the raised barrel unimpressed. “Jumpy… are we?”

Reluctantly, he finally lowered the gun. “I’ve had about enough of random women sneaking up on me for one day,” Garrus answered coldly. 

Vasir scoffed at the word— _women_. But, Garrus offered no apology for the faux pas, too irritated to care about political or social correctness now. “What are you doing here, Vasir?”

Leaning forward, she explained, “The Council’s been trying to hail you for days,” and then punctuated the statement by running one of her knuckles against his cuirass. Another one of her hallmarks he didn’t care for— she was far too handsy for his liking, with a disregard for any personal space. “Plus, I have a few,” she grinned, “loose ends to tie up from a past assignment that are becoming a real pain in the ass. Hence, I was investigating some chatter in this system and needed to refuel. Saw your ship, and figured I’d play messenger.” 

Garrus walked away from the vicinity of her touch with a scowl. “Nothing from the Council has come through on my end.”

Her lip curled. “Well than,” she said, “you’re _welcome_.” Vasir swept curious eyes over the flight deck. “What’s up with your ship?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” he said, examining the digital interface. The data loaders that synced up to the ships navigations charts, flight paths, and destination history all needed to be repaired, and reconfigured. 

“Cool it, Vakarian,” she retorted, which sounded so much like a warning, and not some friendly quip, that Garrus raised a brow at her gall. When he turned to confront her, Vasir continued with a more cheerful manner, “It was like this when I got here. Been trying to do you a favor and get it back online.”

He responded by ignoring her; was she really so oblivious?

“Have you been busy?” she asked in the same upbeat tone.

Apparently so. 

“Have you?” Garrus sneered, hoping that his sarcasm would give her enough of a clue to leave. Shepard and her charge couldn’t be that far from their destination by now. Vasir would recognize Shepard; anyone in Special Tactics and Reconnaissance would. She needed to leave, and Garrus was ready to be rid of her, and her disingenuous pleasantries. 

She smiled again, this time revealing perfectly straight teeth. “You know me. I’ve always got my claws in something.” 

He knelt down, pulling a panel that would give him access to start a hard reboot on the computer systems. “Well than, you should probably get back to whatever it is you’ve been doing,” replied Garrus dismissively. What could have happened to fry his hardware like this?

While Garrus focused on the tangle of wires, and circuits, the room fell silent.

“Where’s your friend?” Vasir suddenly asked, her voice alarming close to the side of his face.

Garrus jerked away, eyes narrowing at her inquiry, and proximity. 

Calmly, Vasir hovered over his shoulder, close enough that Garrus could see the amber specks in her eyes. How she’d managed to creep up on him, he didn’t know, but it gave him all the more reason to be on edge. 

“…I would so like to meet her,” she continued, tapping her fingers against the gantlet mounted to her forearm. It was an impatient rhythm on the white and blue piece of armor, the rapid drumming giving him a reason to look up. As Garrus watched her digits move, a terrible epiphany dawned on him. 

No matter how vast the universe, no act was random. 

Not even violence— all violence was heralded by some kind of recognizable pattern, or indicator that could be tracked or traced.

Much like how Tela Vasir had been tracking them since Shepard’s revival on the Lazarus Research Station.

While he’d been engrossed in his work, she had positioned herself right between the only exit point on the helm. Getting in or out would solely depend upon Vasir’s gatekeeping. It was a sound tactical position to limit the amount of distance that could be put between the two of them. Effectively blocking escape, close combat would be the only option. No stranger to hand-to hand combat, Garrus knew he was still most effective at long range, something his Spectre counterpart would also know.

He needed to buy some time. “And, who might you be referring too?” he asked, innocently.

Vasir rolled her eyes. “Please,” she unfolded her arms to place them on her hips, “don’t play coy.” Pausing, she considered her next words with a thoughtful expression. “Or, do. I like that game too.”

Standing slowly, he feigned an expression of confusion. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrus said, trying to recall everything he knew about Vasir’s modus operandi and armaments; secured to her back was an M-15 Vindicator, Spectre issued heavy armor would provide superior shielding against most attacks, and exceptional biotics could level any obstacles to the ground. 

“Ok,” she said, unconvinced. He was testing the limits of her patience, but she’d been doing the exact same thing to him since breaking into and disabling his ship. Garrus was certain that Vasir had been in the process of planning a trap but likely had been caught unaware by his earlier-than-expected arrival. “I’ll make it simple. I know that Shepard is here in the port, but where? And I know someone told you about Project Lazarus, but who? Both of these teeny, tiny details need my immediate attention. And for the record, I’m tired of following your little escapades all over the goddamn universe.” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “So, why don’t you be a good boy, and tell me what I want to know.”

Overloading her barriers would strip her defenses enough to start causing exploitable damage. The environment wasn’t ideal, but Garrus was confident that he could hold his own against Vasir with the right strategy. “Project what?” he replied, and this time mockery bled through into the words.

“ _Fine_.” Vasir sighed, now seeming happily resolved. “I’ll just beat it out of you.” 

As obnoxious as Garrus found Vasir’s personality to be, her grandstanding turned out to work in his favor. When she surged forward, electric blue ripples crackling the air, Garrus anticipated the attack. He dived, rolled, and aimed an overload. Despite the unintended warning, Garrus could feel the air near his mandible ripple with biotic current; he just managed to evade the charge. The Mattock felt familiar, and comforting in his hands, a much better place for it than on the mass effect generator on his back. He fired, his aim ringing true, finishing what the overload started; her shields flickered and failed. 

He was in the process of lining up a high-impact shot when the barrage of a shockwave knocked the AR out of his grasp. It was unfortunate, but there was no time to mourn, no time to think. He rushed her, the natural predatory versatility of his species giving him an edge to close the distance. Garrus drove his fist right across her smart-ass mouth. 

He felt… satisfied as it connected, knocking her head upward and smearing magenta blood across Kevlar encased fingers.

The gratification was short-lived. 

Vasir recovered with a snarl from torn, bloody lips. With brutal grace and speed, she seized the back of Garrus’ head, forcing his skull down, whilst ramming her knee upwards unto his face.

 _Holy shit_. 

Blood exploded from his nasal cleft, as he took the full force of her ceramic-clad knee. He staggered, hands rising to clutch his face. She sidestepped, driving an elbow to the back of his skull, just behind his fringe. He saw stars before his vision dimmed only for seconds, but when his sight returned, the floor was rushing forward.

Vasir stood over him, her eyes bulging and glossy with bloodlust, and maybe something else equally hungry. Her violet tongue darted out, tasting the blood that dripped from the gash across her swelling bottom lip. “You really know how to show a girl a helluva time.”

His hardsuit computer suddenly flashed a medical alert— _concussion, blood lost; medi-gel advised_. But Vasir stomped the heel of her boot down onto his forearm before Garrus could dispense the medicinal salve. 

“And one good turn deserves another,” she purred menacingly, before straddled him, legs spread obscenely wide. “Hold still. I know people who would pay good money to have this done to them.” Rearing back, she purposely slid her ass over his pelvis right before landing a biotically charged punch to side of his head. Garrus tasted blood in his mouth. He’d never been hit so hard in his life. 

Reaching behind his head, Vasir hoisted him up. “I _tried_ doing this the easy way,” Vasir whispered sweetly. “But, you’re either too stupid, stubborn, or both to take a hint.” Something wet, warm, and plump darted into his aural canal — her tongue. “At least you’re cute.”

Garrus swallowed back a wave of disgust, choosing to focus on the throbbing in his skull that matched the echo of his own heartbeat— it was pounding faster by the minute. He opened his eyes just in time to watch Vasir’s fist, wrapped in blue ambiance, swinging down again. There was no pain to register, not yet—adrenaline would keep that at bay for now— but the crack of his already abused cheek was enough to shake him free of dazed shock. 

Tela Vasir wasn’t just trying to beat information out of him. She was trying to kill him and if she was successful, Shepard would be the next target. 

Garrus would _not_ let that happen. 

There was no time to ponder when and why Vasir had gone rogue, his mind now set only on the singular purpose of putting her down, if for no other reason than survival. He rolled away, just managing to avoid another blow. The motion unsaddled Vasir from his body, presenting an opening to catch her arm and twist it back. There wasn’t enough leverage to dislocate her shoulder, but it gave him an opening to bury a punch into her torso. She doubled over. Shoving her Vasir back, he was able to stand, putting distance between them.

It didn’t give him the advantage he needed. Vasir had decades, if not centuries to perfect her combat skills. She closed the gap with another charge, an unnecessarily heavy attack for such tight quarters. The driving force slammed him against the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. This time he did feel pain and something else, something foreign— desperation. Vasir fought with unrelenting savagery, as if she had a complete disregarded for anything, everything, and everyone.

He caught her neck with both hands, halting her propulsion. 

“Oh, is _that_ how you like it?” she wheezed, gurgling and giggled through a rapidly restricting windpipe. When she noticeable spread her legs a little wider, Garrus tightened his grip, just wanting to silence her and the double entendres that dripped from her lips. Her armored collar was just low enough to expose a strip of unprotected skin to wrap his hands around. Rarely, did any conflict need to be resolved at such sort range and without the use of a firearm. To be so close, to be inflicting this sort of violence on Vasir was appalling. He didn’t want to touch her, but if strangling her was the only option, then it would just be another experience to bury in the dark, hidden place in his brain that allowed him to sleep at night.

Vasir head tipped back in an effort to gain air and surely, she had to be losing consciousness by now. Her fingers yanked at his, before she squeezed her eyes shut in an almost ecstatic expression of concentration.

 _Just die already_.

When she snapped them back open, gone were the white sclera and mahogany irises— her pupils were dilating, round and inky, until they engulfed her eyes to pits of black nothingness. 

Compulsion demanded the hollow gaze be met; a beckoning void crooning a melody that could not—should not— be resisted. It was then, captivated by the pull, that the telepathic equivalent of a spike was shoved into the center of his frontal brow plate right through the other side of his skull.

He could feel it— the rapid merging of Vasir’s nervous system forcibly overtaking his own. The rupturing tension of his muscles, the misfiring of nerves, overwhelmed brainwaves— if the agony hadn’t left him breathless, Garrus would’ve screamed.

His hands slipped away from her neck, dropping limply to his sides. To wonder whether it was his body’s pain response, or a suggestion of Vasir’s neural influence, was a waste of time. Ultimately, neither option matter; Garrus was rendered immobile either way. 

Vasir gasped, mouth gaping wide. She slowly— purposefully— regained her composure. “Mind over matter,” she croaked out. Ugly bruises were already blossoming under her jawline. “I’ve always liked that saying. Mind. Over. Matter. You could say my people have a certain gift when it comes to that.” Her voice was now a distant echo, in the thousand other voices howling in his head. 

Garrus had been so confident, so sure, a mere minute ago that it with the right plan— the right tactics— that Tela Vasir was just another target, another adversary that could be scoped and dropped. But, as he lay there prone with this terrible creature across his lap, Garrus knew that overconfidence was a slow, and insidious killer.

“Is it worth it, Vakarian?” Vasir asked, tilting her head. “Is it worth protecting her?"

In an effort to not simply lay down and take… _this_ , he lifted an arm. It resisted with outcries of deep burning to numbing pains that ran from his fingertips to the base of his spine. Yes, Garrus decided, Vasir was definitely to blame for the paralysis. He just managed to raise it high enough to catch the hard curve of her pauldron. It hung like deadweight.

The exertion it took to spit out, “You can go to hell,” infuriated Garrus. His jaw ached, and he couldn’t shut all the way. Clawing his fingers into armor, he wished that he was shoving them into her unblinking, corpselike eyes instead. Surely, that would’ve broken the control Vasir forced upon his body and into his psyche. 

Vasir watched him with an amused expression on her monstrous face before removing his hand from her shoulder. With biotically enhanced strength, she twisted and pulled until his arm issued a sickening wet _crack_ , followed by an agonizing pain mixed with a sudden rush of fear.

She dropped his arm back to the floor with a bored flick of her wrist. 

Through fleeting nausea, he could only stare at the crooked, broken limb dumbfounded. 

“Well, since you can’t be reasoned with…” Vasir scolded. Her voice, now shrill, broke Garrus out of his cloud of double-vision awe. “…and won’t tell me what I want to know, then I guess I’ll just have to pluck it right out of your mind.” The gluttonous grin on her face all but split her face in two.

Blunt, psychic fingers pried open his brain, and when every layer was peeled back, and his mind could be exposed no further, Vasir drove in another neural lance and when she withdrew, acquired more than just a few pieces of intel. 

She took every personal memory, private emotion, closely guarded secret, and unspoken confession— numerous ploys and advantages to be used as weapons at her discretion. Vasir now possessed parts of him that Garrus was only just started to analyze, realize, and accept: the pitfalls of his broken life, the ebb and flow of hope, and Shepard…

Garrus felt his heart skip multiple beats, and his breath catch in his throat. 

Especially Shepard.

The most precious thing of all. 

“Not even a kiss?” the asari asked, before letting out the unmistakable chortle of sheer psychotic derangement. The yawping ricocheted throughout his head. “Don’t worry, Vakarian! I’ll kiss her for you!”

She speared him again, trespassing for the simple sake of cruelty. 

“Kiss her so hard, I’ll take her breath away…” 

Another twist of the knife that carved a path through his nerves, leaving Garrus with nothing but feeling so raw, so bare, and so…

Violated. 

His vision was darkening around the edges. Finally, he was blacking out from the trauma— pain thresholds met, breached, and exhausted. 

Strange mercy, that. 

Garrus’ last thoughts until blissfully blacking out, were about how much he was going to make Tela Vasir suffer.

+++

He heard muffled gunshots. 

The smell of sulfur—incendiary rounds. 

Weight suddenly bolting away from his body. 

The sound of metal groaning. 

A rush of freezing air. 

And, the low timbre of Shepard’s voice saying, “Just hold on, Garrus.”

End Chapter 9

+++

A/N continued: 

A. The moment I realized the asari were truly terrifying was when Matriarch Benezia told Shepard that was she took the coordinates for the Mu Relay from the Rachni Queen’s mind and ‘was not gentle’. 

B. I actually quite like Tela Vasir; a short-lived, but intriguing villain. (This isn’t the last time you’ll be seeing her in this fic!)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Descend: Chapter Ten
> 
> Author: Shudder Shock (http://afterlife-club.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard
> 
> Summary: Following the destruction of the Normandy SR-1, Garrus completes Spectre training. Two years later, he receives a tipoff about a Cerberus operation called the Lazarus Project. (Mass Effect AU)
> 
> Rating: Mature. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters © BioWare. 
> 
> A/N: I've been waiting to write this chapter for almost a year.
> 
> +++

The burbling of water, the brush of cotton, and the whisper of a five-digit caress. 

A gentle awakening, reminiscent of summer dawns on Palaven when his mother would tip-toe into his room, opening curtains to let golden light spill in, before nudging her brow against his own, sweetly rousing him out of slumber. Childish anger would force his hands to pull the covers over his face, and she would tug them done just below his cerulean eyes. Both Garrus and Solana inherited the cool silver and blue of Castis Vakarian. Neither shared the tawny color of his mother’s round eyes, or the saffron of her plates. 

During those perfect mornings, Garrus would silently pout, tiny mandibles clenched to his jaw, arms crossed, and glare at his beautiful mother.

He didn’t understand why he needed to wake up so early to paint the colony patterns of his overly strict father across his face, especially when she kept her own facial plates bare except when Castis was home. 

He didn’t understand why she clutched Solana to her hip and firmly held his hand, as the three of them strolled up the grassy knoll that served as their private shooting range. Castis just left last night, and Garrus was hoping to have a break from the rigorous training schedule that his father put in place for him during the summer months. Already the temperature was sweltering and would continue to climb well past noon— just like the last five days Garrus was forced to practice with Castis looming over his shoulder.

Garrus all but dragged the old rifle up the hill in protest, until his mother scolded him for his insolence. _That’s a gun, my child, you know better than to carry it like that. Respect and understand the power in your hands. There are consequences if you don’t. And those consequences can be deadly._

When they reached the top, the rifle was propped straight against his shoulder. As Garrus lifted the firearm, he ignored his sore arms and vowed to do his very best, if only to impress his mother.

Gunshots reverberated through the valley.

But his best wasn’t good enough on this hazy, humid day.

His targets—a close-set diagonal line of glass bottles— stood whole and taunting.

Garrus hung his head, afraid to look up and see the disappointment on her face, but his fear was unfounded. She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before trading a fussy Solana for the rifle, and motioning Garrus a few meters away with his baby sister. The wide, gossamer sleeves of her dress flowed down, revealing toned forearms and biceps, as she put the rifle butt firmly into the pocket of her shoulder. 

Letting her cheek fall naturally to the stock, she lined up the sights and fired a single bullet.

All the bottles shattered into a broken kaleidoscope of color. 

Garrus stood in wide-eyed awe at her marksmanship. The bright sunlight gleamed through the draping layers of her garb, a breeze ruffling the iridescence fabric causing it to shimmer from bronze to burgundy. As she stood in the glow of midmorning, wrapped in a halo of fire, and Garrus could only stare at his mother in amazement.

But, her visage was troubled. She raised a hand, shielding her eyes to squint at something in the distance. Garrus followed her gaze to where the object of her disdain stood like a mocking pillar— a single unbroken bottle. 

When Garrus looked back to her, she was inspecting her hand with a scrutinizing gaze as though betrayed, and even as he commented on how perfect her aim was, she seemed far, far away. 

He didn’t understand…

Years later, when he turned fifteen, Castis came home to see his first born off to basic training. Garrus rose before dawn, too eager to sleep any longer. Unable to quell his excitement he took to pacing around his room, and eventually through the house. Wondering if Castis would be willing to impart any last-minute words of wisdom before deployment, Garrus crept down the hallway towards his parent’s room. Their door was open, a sure sign that they were awake; both were early risers. 

From the hallway, Garrus could hear the sorrowful droning of his father.

For half a minute he quietly stood outside their door, before curiously peering inside. 

Garrus found his parents sitting at the foot of their bed. His father tenderly tipped his mother’s chin up his with thumb; he wore no gloves. In his other hand, Castis held a slender brush that he carefully dipped into a jar of freshly mixed, brilliant white paint. Sweeping the tip side to side, he applied graceful lines across the smooth planes of her face. She tried to remain motionless, tranquil in her efforts to control the tremors that ran throughout her body.

After a moment, Castis leaned back, inspecting his wife with sad eyes. The bristles were rinsed, the brush placed upon the tray next to the jar of paint. Then, with a trembling hand, his mother wiped his tears and kissed her husband. 

An intimate and years old ritual that unsettled Garrus’ young heart.

Some days were better than others. The neurological degradation set on by Corpalis Syndrome was visibly robbing his mother of the former precision of her motor skills more and more each day. To hold a brush steadily enough to daub the fine lines of her colony markings was impossible and had been for a long time.

Never again did Garrus take for granted his own dexterity when he dragged the square-shaped brush across his nose, cheeks, and mandibles.

Something silky soft was sweeping across his face now.

Garrus tried to push it away, but his arm just wouldn’t cooperate, and that was… fine. 

He was struck by how safe he felt here.

The sensation slipped away, leaving only a delicate aftertouch that persisted upon his brow. “Can you try to open your eyes?” inquired a concerned voice that his dream fogged brain only barely processed. He liked the way it sounded— wanted to know what other noises could be coaxed from its harmonies— but it was trying to pull him away from the comfortable oblivion of unconsciousness.

He could’ve stayed that way forever.

A sound escaped out of his throat, mostly a sub-vocal murmur, and absolutely nothing that resembled a coherent answer. 

Awakening just seemed far too difficult, especially when the alternative was soft, warm, and painless.

“Garrus, please…” continued the faint voice, and Garrus knew that he couldn’t deny the sultry plea because it was Shepard who was crooning against his aural canal.

Untethered from the gentle waves of drowsiness, rigid reality asserted itself firmly into Garrus’ cognizance as he opened his eyes, only to instantly shut them—the light was far too bright, and every inch of his physique hurt. It would have been easy to focus on that pain—he knew he was injured— so instead he devoted that energy to regaining his bearings. He was laying upright on a bed, neck and back supported and, much to his chagrin, was lacking his hardsuit and armaments. Just under a thin blanket pulled to his shoulders, Garrus was battered, bandaged, and nude.

It was not optimal. 

“How’re you feeling?” Shepard asked softly.

The only thing that stopped Garrus from shaking his head at Shepard’s stupidly polite question was that he didn’t want to slosh his brain around his skull. Instead he replied, “Like someone just tried to beat me to death.” His mouth tasted bloody. 

She sounded a low little chuckle. “Well, you can’t be feeling that terrible if you’re making bad jokes. You’re just lucky that I like your sense of humor.” 

Before he could stop himself, Garrus said, “You’re just lucky that I like you,” and if Shepard were a turian she would have heard more than just his sarcasm. She would have heard the vulnerable confession buried within those words, a proclamation of something akin to lust and love. He finally willed his eyes open again, rolling his head to look at her. Tension draining away; Shepard seemed tired but unharmed.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, a washcloth in her hand. There was a medical cart next to her, the top laden with various supplies including a glass basin full of water. Steam was rising from its surface, drips of condensation rolling off the sides. Her hair was loose, the obvious culprit that tickled his forehead earlier. 

Garrus experimented with opening and closing his mouth. His jaw was stiff, the byproduct of dislocation. Fanning his mandibles out one by one with only slight discomfort, Garrus was certain that the damage would linger, but not permanently; medi-gel was a helluva thing.

His last moments of consciousness before blacking out flashed throughout his abused mind, the phantom pain of mental assault cruelly reminding him of everything Vasir gleefully took away and broke apart. 

Garrus ran a groggy hand over his face, the touch grounding him enough to ask the most obvious and pressing question. “Did you kill her?”

“No,” Shepard answered in equal parts regret and anger, though Garrus didn’t share her disappointment. Already, his thoughts were drifting to revenge. He inspected his talons— curved, gleaming, and sharp enough to tatter, tear, and split flesh. 

Shepard watched the flexing of his phalanges. “…You know her?” she carefully asked. “I noticed the Spectre insignia.” 

“Yeah.” Garrus stated, curling his fingers into a fist so that the tips of his claws dug into his palm. The pain helped quiet the rage that now clamored for his attention above all other emotions. “Tela Vasir has been a Spectre long before either of us was born. She was my handler.”

“She trained you?”

“Hardly. Still, I got more guidance than you ever did.” Shepard rolled her eyes. “We cut ties after a few weeks. Didn’t need or want any of her advice…” For a split second, right as Vasir violently forced her will into him, the connection lit up like a two-way circuit. In that moment, Garrus found out that he wasn’t the first, second, or even third person that suffered through her brand of datamining. This form of interrogation was something she unbashfully, unequivocally, overwhelmingly enjoyed. “…she’s a monster…” Garrus muttered, clenching his fist a little tighter.

“Well find her, Garrus,” Shepard promised. “We’ll make her pay.”

“Yes.” He ran the edge of his claw against the pad of his thumb. “We will.”

A tense minute, the room quiet save their breathing, until Shepard smiled and said, “I wasn’t dead yet.”

It took a moment for her implication to sink in, but then he managed a weak chuckle. “The Council didn’t feel like you had enough experience to mentor a peer,” Garrus said. “Even after all you did for them. But then again, maybe they thought we’d just get into too much trouble together.”

“Typical asshole politicians.” And, this time he did allow himself to laugh even though it hurt his face to do so. “But, that does explain a lot. I popped off a few rounds before she escaped. I may have grazed her, but I’ve never seen anyone move that fast…” Shepard reached into the bottom of the cart to pass him a tumbler filled with ice and water. Garrus grimaced, hoisting himself on the one arm that was functional, the blanket falling away to reveal his other limb secured against his body in a sling. Medi-gel was only so effective at mending bones.

Shepard stared at his torso for a noticeably long time. “I didn’t even know an arm could bend that way,” she mused offhandedly, before dipping the cloth into the basin. 

“You know me…” he raised the glass to her, “I’m just full of surprises.” 

The water rinsed some of the metallic taste away. 

Shepard leaned in with the damp, warm cloth. “That you are.” She carefully started to pat around his eye. “Been trying to clean you up the best I could since post-surgery,” she said. “I hate waking up covered in dried blood. Thought you might feel the same. But, if you’d rather…”

She started to pull back, but Garrus reached up to keep her hand on his face. “Shepard.” It felt like it belonged there, right along his mandible. “I don’t mind.”

If Shepard wanted to play caretaker Garrus would happily comply, but any budding comfort brought on by her pampering and preening was cut short as the words _post-surgery_ sunk in. Other than the fact that they were in some sort of recovery room aboard a ship, Garrus didn’t recognize anything about their surroundings. Reluctantly, Garrus broke contact with her. “What happened?” he asked. “And, where are we?”

She scooted closer, blotting just along his jawline. After a moment, she quietly responded, “A Cerberus vessel.”

His heart sank. “Shepard...” They were right back where they started from.

“Your ship was trashed, Garrus,” she explained in that pragmatic tone of hers that left no room for argument. “And so were you. We couldn’t have stayed on Noveria. Cerberus is giving us a lift.”

He winced as the cloth was dragged over his nasal cleft. Garrus could smell the medi-gel residue inside his nose. It was sore, but he was at least able to breathe through it. “Surely not out of the goodness of their hearts,” he said, already dreading her response— the universe didn’t run on benevolence nor charity. 

“I brokered a deal with Miranda Lawson,” Shepard said, confirming his suspicions, yet divulging no more.

“What sort of deal?” he pressed, annoyed that he even needed to ask. And yet, he was reminded of how the Commander didn’t necessarily volunteer details when her idea of a plan was just making it to the next area of cover, or through the next firefight with her squad in tow.

Shepard pursed her lips. “I told Lawson that I would at least hear her out in exchange for transportation and medical assistance. Garrus, I promise you, I’m not stupid,” her care took on a less gentle, benign edge; more jabbing, less dabbing, “I’d never blindly agree to anything Cerberus proposes. And, besides, they’re not actively trying to kill us at the moment. I’d say this is already an improvement from just a few hours ago.”

“An improvement, but just barely.” He tested the movement of his digits in the sling; index to thumb, outer to thumb. His trigger finger worked, and already was itching to be used. “It’s Cerberus, Shepard. All those atrocities they’ve committed—”

“— are not easily forgotten,” Shepard finished. “I still intend to get answers for what we saw two years ago. But you said it yourself, they’re the only ones who are taking the Reaper threat seriously.” 

“And you said you’d never work for terrorists,” Garrus reminded her, because two could play that game.

“I’m not working for _anyone_!” she snapped, and he was pleased that he could pull such a reaction from the overwise composed woman. Garrus had struck a nerve, however Shepard would’ve never risen to such heights if she was so easily defeated by words alone. “But I do think that fate has a way of putting what you need, right in front of you when it matters most. So, I’m gonna listen to what Lawson has to say, and if I don’t like it, then at least I know my debt to them is repaid when I shoot my way outta here.” She paused thoughtfully, brows furrowed. He recognized the look; she was weighing out her next words, her next practical option. “Garrus, you’re not tied here. You don’t need to stay. You’re stable now, and that was as far as your cooperation went with Lawson.”

“Shepard,” he said tersely, because now it was his turn to be irritated. “Don’t tell me what I need to do. And, I will _not_ be leaving you alone here with them.”

She smiled, and Garrus wondered if it was more for him, or herself. “I wouldn’t be entirely alone,” Shepard replied, her care turned soft once again; a caress along the upper ridge of his mandible that traveled down to the base of his spine.

His words came out much lower than intended, more subvocal than true voice, “That geth doesn’t count.” Out of his peripheral, he saw that the cloth was now thoroughly stained.

“Are you sure? He’s the one that carried you out while I covered our exit.” She rinsed the washcloth, crystal clear water now dirty with dark blue paint, and even darker blood. “That counts for something…”

His eyes lingered on the murky ripples, watching the cobalt pigments swirl and delude. She wrung excess water away. “Damn, she really got you…” Shepard muttered, leaning forward again. The soft texture of cotton on his cheek bringing him back to both the present and to her. She pressed her fingers against a particularly tender spot under his fringe. Internally, he reacted with conflicting sensations— discomfort tinged with pleasure. It was a sensitive spot, hidden primarly by a hardsuit; exposure usually limited to only the most intimate times.

“Yeah… she did,” he agreed, distracted. Instinctually, he reached up to inspect the damage but found he couldn’t, at least not with the arm he tried— the arm that Vasir broke. Even through the telltale haze of painkillers, Garrus could still feel the pressure of swollen muscles, and torn ligaments. Never had he suffered at the hands of another so completely before, and a dangerous rage threatened to consume him, to blind and cripple his ability to be levelheaded. Priorities beyond finding Vasir and making her face retribution were of little interest to him.

But Shepard was rational where he was reckless, and she proved that by saying, “With the way everything’s going, maybe it’s time to reestablish contact with the Council. They should at least know that one of their Spectres has gone rogue. Surely, Anderson would listen to us.”

It was practical suggestion, if not for the earlier echoes of Liara’s warnings, and more recent paranoia coming to mind. “If she’s gone rogue…” he commented.

“She tried murdering another Spectre,” Shepard replied, as if he needed the reminder. “That pretty much sums up _going rogue_.”

“I wasn’t her primary target. You were—are. And you have been since… waking up.” How could he have not recognized the visage of their stalker and connected it to Tela Vasir? “We need to find Vasir and stop whatever she’s planning.” If only he could have drudged up the memory sooner, and not left him—them—susceptible to attack. To have fallen so far, to have such change so quickly— to lack control over their situation... “Our next objective should be figuring out why she’s pursuing you and then eliminate her immediately after that.” 

Shepard reached out, putting a hand on his bare, unbound limb. “Hey.” Her thumb grazed his inner bicep, softly running along the minute scales, a texture that her own arms did not possess. “This isn’t your fault.”

He wanted to believe her, but the reassurance did nothing. 

Maybe it would when the pain wasn't so fresh, or he wasn't so raw...

Maybe it would once Tela Vasir was dead, preferably as painful as possible. 

“Stop.” Shepard said, suddenly rising. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and dipped her face to his brow. “Just stop.” Her hair fell around him, and his senses were immediately enveloped by the scent of her body. If she wanted to hold him until he disappeared, Garrus would gladly succumb to her embrace, and to the offer of her lean neck that was poised just in front of his face. "I know what you're thinking about right now, Garrus..." 

A strand of hair fell along the curve of her throat, and he felt bloodlust transform into something far less violent, but just as passionate. Maybe it was the desperation of being so close to death that pushed his gall, but he was hungry for her naked body, and so tired of just holding her with his eyes. Garrus longed to strip her bare somewhere warm and safe, to explore and taste the sample of her skin that he’d already seen, and all that was still hidden from his view.

Circling her waist with his hand, Garrus pulled her forward, closing what little distance was left between them. He was ready, with starving mouth and her throat pulsed against his tongue, breath hitching as he dragged it across her flesh. She stiffened, her hands digging into his shoulders. Garrus paused, until he felt them move to just under his fringe, right to the spot she skimmed earlier to shove him forward in a way that was both demanding and desperate. 

In that moment, Garrus knew he wasn’t the only one who needed the slow, warm fall into sexual gratification, the comfort that came with being an active, central part of someone else’s pleasure. It didn’t even matter that they were so different, something innate reassured his libido that they would make this would work.

“Shepard….” His hand left her waist to find the side of her face, the same side he touched back on Omega, and this time he didn’t hesitate to gently pull her near, bringing her close enough to ghost his mouth against her own. Shepard’s breath was warm against his muzzle, but her fingertips were cool as they grazed his sore, bruised mandible.

“I know what it’s like to need to know you’re still alive,” Shepard murmured against his mouth. “I know what it’s like to need the affirmation…” She slid her leg over his thigh to straddle his lap. Their mouths met in a tentative kiss. Her lips were soft enough to make his world stand still, but in that stillness, there was the freedom—the escape— that he so sorely needed. It didn’t matter that Shepard possessed neither a dainty set of mandibles to slowly rub against his own lengthier pair, or the sensuous thrumming of a sub-vocal timbre; everything about the way their mouths pressed together, and tongues entwined was perfect. She couldn’t advance as deeply into his mouth as Garrus could to explore the confines of her own, but when she sucked his tongue another part of his anatomy took immediate notice.

Gingerly, he propped his body up with his good arm, not wanting to break the deep, messy kissing that left Shepard’s lips glistening and red. She leisurely rolled her hips, one hand staying on the back of his head, while the other traced the ridge of his cowl. Her caresses were exploratory; every time she discovered a new texture, scale, or plate she would halt to skim, or circle the object of fascination. Garrus didn’t mind; he was eager to do the very same to Shepard. 

He was used to the rough, frantic fucking of post-battle release that was so common in his experience in the military, and the image of Shepard on her knees while he relentlessly pounded her crossed his mind, and maybe there would come a time when they both would need it like that, but a different kind of rush enveloped him now. The swirling of blood around his head, the beating of his heart, and the methodical grinding of her hips against his, were all reminders that not only was he alive, but so was Shepard. Even the ache of his injured body and broken limb, grounded and elevated his desire to exchange in mutual pleasures. Despite this, he longed to be free of the sling that immobilized his arm, if for nothing more than to run both hands through Shepard’s hair, and over her body.

She broke away from their kissing, leaning back to pull off her shirt. She wore nothing underneath. And, this time, Garrus allowed himself to stare, because Shepard was putting herself on display for him. She arched her back, raising her arms behind her head, only to let her hands drift over her breasts, defined stomach, and back to under his fringe. They exchanged another fervent kiss, and he tangled his fingers through her hair. 

He found her waist again, switching their positions. He did enjoy the way she was positioned across his lap, the idea of fucking her from that angle—to spread her knees open and watch her ride his cock— was enticing, but not while his arm was stationary. He’d want both hands free for that. For now, he would make due with one. 

Shepard shimmied out of her pants, and Garrus helped her pull them off the rest of the way. Her legs parted for him, letting him settle between her thighs. She racked her eyes over his form, shyly at first but then with blatant fascination. “I wish that wasn’t in the way…” Shepard said, referring to the sling. He never heard her voice so low and breathy before. It was no thrum of a dualtone, but it carried more than enough meaning for him.

“You and me both,” Garrus replied, before finally touching her bare torso, the part of her anatomy that left him feeling so curious since being initially laid out in front of him. Her skin felt as smooth as it looked, and soft enough to welt if he dug his claws a little too hard. A slight gasp escaped her throat, and she caught his wrist halting his curious exploration. Garrus looked up, concerned. If that had just hurt her, then they were going to have to be more careful than he expected. Already he knew he probably couldn’t press is body to hers the way he wanted, his keel likely to cut a shallow line between her breasts. 

But, it was no expression of pain, but something else that become clear when Shepard guided his hand to her parted lips and dragged her tongue across his digit. Shepard’s eyes were hazy, half-open, yet entirely focused on his face when she sucked his finger into her mouth. Garrus expected Shepard to guide their encounter, like she had with so many other past interactions together— always in control, always leading. But, when Garrus pulled out his index finger to replace it with his thumb, to delve between Shepard’s lips without her guidance, she sighed contently; an offer of sweet submission. 

His forearm rested comfortably between her breasts, the silken skin brushing against either side as he moved his thumb in and out. The centers were pebbled, and when Shepard arched her back, the offer was too good to ignore. He popped his thumb out of her mouth, using it to coat her nipple with her own spit. He leaned forward to give an unhurried flick of his tongue across her breast. Shepard choked on his name. 

It was ultimately that little exhale of pleasure, that fully shifted his pelvic plating, freeing his cock from its protective sheath. It smeared the inside of one of Shepard’s sprawled thighs with clear lubricant, a heady visual that only heightened his arousal. He heard her sigh pleasantly, knowing exactly what was now pressed against her skin. 

She reached for him, soft fingertips grazing the length, before wrapping around his member. From this angle, even with the sling and bandages in the way, he could watch Shepard pump his cock with her hand that couldn’t even grip it all the way around his girth. She would start from the thick base, working her way up to the tapered tip, only to repeat the action. It was almost hypnotic to view the way it disappeared and reappeared in the tunnel created by her nimble fingers.

The friction was everything he wanted it to be, and he let himself rut into her hand until he couldn’t take the pressure any longer. He was going to come, but not before he was buried deep inside her body and certainly not before Shepard. Gently, he loosened her grip, then pulled her panties away.

To finally be given the opportunity to worship at the altar between her thighs; this was the sort of religion that could feed his desires.

This part of her was familiar; a bundle of nerves against his palm and a tight, wet entry around his finger. It seemed that although the universe loved diversity, it also knew what worked best for the sexual pleasure of most of its inhabitants. It was a good thing too, because it spurred him on, giving him the confidence to use his thumb and forefinger to spread her open and lap at her wet pussy. She pushed against his mouth and trembled when the tip of his tongue skimmed against her clit. Shepard was wholly receptive to every way he caressed, stretched, and played with her skin. She was pleasingly malleable under his ministrations. It only took a few leisurely strokes from his tongue before she gasped and shuddered against his jaw. 

He moved to kiss her again, to let Shepard share in her own taste. She seemed to like the way his tongue filled her mouth, even more so than his fingers, and Garrus vowed that the next time they did this, he’d offer her something entirely different to satisfy that fixation.

As he leaned forward, Garrus hooked under her knee with his good arm, to open and brace her body. His cock slid through the soft, soaking plaits of her pussy. 

“Yes, Garrus,” she beckoned, through the daze of her orgasm. “You can have me anyway you want.”

His cock was a heavy line against the velvety, slick valley between her legs. 

When he pushed past the tight threshold of her body, she felt like hot, exquisite oil around his cock. Shepard moaned, and this time Garrus wasn’t sure it was entirely from enjoyment, and that gave him pause. Distantly, through all the pleasure receptors firing off in his body, his brain registered that he was probably the biggest she’d ever had, and he needed to give Shepard time to adjust to just how much he stretched her. Her internal muscle clang to him— surrounded him in a way that was almost too tight. 

But to finally be with her like this, after all this time… to let her body wash over him… 

“Garrus,” she whispered, hands flat against his keel. “Let me feel you.”

And he did, over and over again until they were bathed in nothing but afterglow.

End Chapter Ten


End file.
